


Variations on Forever

by JaneTurenne



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Community: best_enemies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 130,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are fixed. Some things can be changed. But the true nature of permanence isn't an easy lesson, even for a pair of Time Lords. A Master-POV take on the first fifteen hundred years of their lives—together, apart, and every state in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the best_enemies AU Big Bang. Beta thanks to blackletter.
> 
> I feel it's important to add a more detailed warning here: mention is made in this fic of the rape of an underage character. It isn't described in detail, and the context is non-erotic, but it could be triggery, and is meant to be disturbing. Fair warning.

_"Oh, I know. I most definitely know. I only barely stopped mine exploding an entire galaxy last week."_

 _The Doctor's voice drifts through the TARDIS's corridors. The Master wanders towards the sound, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to establish some order in the chaos of his short hair._

 _The Doctor laughs at something his inaudible conversation partner has said. "Yes, it is worth it—but don't tell either of them I said so. Good work on Peladon, by the by. Oh, and if you get reports about trouble on Logopolis, let us handle that one, all right? I know only too well that it's not in your nature to let anybody else take care of things, but you'll know it's in the best of all possible hands." There is a pause. "Oy! Remember who it is you're insulting....yeah, I ought to be getting back myself. Kiss yours for me. Oh, now, don't pretend you won't like it, you can't possibly hope to fool_ me _. None of these skimpy pecks, either—plenty of tongue. Don't pretend you won't like_ that _either."_

 _The Master reaches the console room just as the Doctor switches off his viewscreen. He's sitting in his chair, trainers propped up on the console. The Master presses his face into the crook of the Doctor's neck. "You'll make me jealous talking like that, Doctor. And hasn't anybody ever told you that talking to yourself is a sign of insanity?"_

 _"If that's the worst sign of my insanity, I've got much saner since yesterday—and I think they might make an exception in this particular case, anyway. Your nose is_ freezing _, Master."_

 _The Master rubs his nose in a little deeper, just to make a point, and wishes he had a beard to scratch with. "How are you, then, Doctor? And how am I?"_

 _"We're much the same as always. Saving the universe. Driving each other crazy. I get the impression there's another spat on about companions. I don't think you and Sarah Jane are exactly hitting it off."_

 _"Mmmm." The Master kisses into the Doctor's neck, working his way upwards. "I still don't see why you insist on keeping such a crowd around, Doctor. If Miss Noble weren't visiting her grandfather, I couldn't do this..." He slides his hand over the Doctor's chest and down, towards the waistline of his pinstriped trousers._

 _"Oh, don't pretend, Master. I know you like Donna, no matter what you say about it. You've always liked the ones who're willing to stand up to you."_

 _"It's good to hear we're up to our usual tricks." The Doctor lets the Master steer the conversation back where he wants it. The Master thinks that oversight may have something to do with what his hand is getting up to underneath the Doctor's waistband._

 _"That'll never change, Master," says the Doctor, leaning back in his chair. "You, and me, and a whole wide universe of battles to fight and wonders to see and miracles to do. For..."_

 _"Ah!" cautions the Master. "None of that."_

 _The Doctor turns his face towards the Master's. "For now," he says, smiling._

 _"For now," replies the Master, and smiles back._

 

 **Many years earlier**

 

To a Time Lord, 'forever' is a perversion. Nothing is forever. Even what is bounded only by the limits of the universe is bounded, and pretending it isn't is an inexactitude unforgivably gross. They are cautioned again and again that to promise each other forever is to guarantee disappointment, but their many mutual talents don't extend to listening. They are young and invulnerable. What applies to other people isn't true for them. They can promise each other anything—from the great secrets of the universe to their own souls—in full expectation of fulfilling what they pledge. And so they promise each other forever, savoring the wrongness of it, certain beyond doubting that they two can make it right.

*

They never give up on their dreams of rebellion, not exactly. But, as every Time Lord learns by age three, the entropy of a system only ever moves forward.

On the day of their graduation from the Academy Theta and Koschei earn their true names, and the next morning the Doctor and the Master are married. The following month is spent blissfully honeymooning, rarely venturing out of each other's minds, much less their bed. After that, life calls them back to their appointed spheres and keeps them there. The Doctor lectures on galactic geography and xenosociology and interspacial geometry—the only classes in which his marks ever reflected his genius—to groups of eager young Academes. His constant requests for the use of a TARDIS, on the grounds that he ought actually to see what he is teaching, are delayed and denied again and again, and he takes to sneaking off to the shipyards to spy on the design teams who construct the vessels that represent so much freedom. None of them see him as anything more than a nuisance, but he does befriend an old type forty rusting in a dusty corner—if 'befriend' is the right word for being subjected to slightly less of her gruff, creaking moodiness than anyone else who comes near. The Master, meanwhile, ever the better able to navigate the system, is impressively well-placed in the government laboratories for a Time Lord still inside his first skin, but he makes no secret of his political ambitions.

"And when I'm President," he tells the Doctor, kissing his husband's neck, "you can be my Ambassador Extraordinary, and do all the tearing about the universe you like so long as you're home by tea-time. How does that sound?"

"Perfect," replies the Doctor, laughing, every time.

*

They're married three decades before they begin to be willing to share each other—but, as always, their hidebound society looks on them as fools rushing in. They ought to wait until their next bodies, they are told, until they're older and surer of themselves, but they've always taken 'ought' as a dare. They can't safely direct the artron energy to give life to a new body until they're more practiced in the psychic arts, they are told, but they've always laughed at 'can't.' It's true that they both feel physically wrung dry for weeks after pouring out so much of themselves at the de-looming, but how steep a price is _that_ to pay for something so perfect? They spend the first day curled up together in one big bed, one on either side of their tiny daughter, running chaste, sweet, reverent fingertips over each other, over the three of them. They both resist the urge to slow down time, letting it run its normal course. They have forever, after all. In an infinity of time, even utopia can be counted on to come around again.

*

"She'll be _brilliant_."

"I should have thought that was abundantly clear."

"She'll be more than brilliant. She'll be a _genius_."

"Once again, Doctor, you have a remarkable capacity for stating the obvious."

"She'll be the greatest genius Gallifrey has seen since Rassilon."

"Now there you're quite mistaken."

"Are you demeaning my daughter, Master? Because I may have to...become thoroughly cross."

"What do you take me for, Doctor? I merely think it should be pointed out that her achievements will _far_ exceed those of that old fogey who called himself the founder of Time Lord society."

"Ah. And quite right, too. You know, you're no more than half-bad when it comes to brains yourself, Master."

"Of that, my dear Doctor," replies the Master, "I am very well aware."

*

They name her Rosamaracandrasalcha, because the Doctor remembers his mother's stories, and knows that there is nothing lovelier than a Rose.

*

Parenthood changes them both. The Doctor becomes more settled, calmer, his desire to run diminished by the certitude that nothing could be better than what he already has before him. It's the Master who grows restive, his ambitions expanding slowly, and then faster, and then faster still as he watches his daughter grow. He wants to give her everything. He wants her to be proud of him. He wants her never, never, _never_ to know disappointment. And he has a plan.

"It's dangerous," the Doctor insists, adamant. "Surely you can see how easily this could be weaponized! You could destroy stars, _galaxies_ with that kind of power!"

"It's not meant as a weapon," the Master argues. "Think of the good it could do! Planets that could never have supported life, transformed into positive paradises. Inter-universal travel, quick, painless and safe. Suns and moons rearranged, perfectly positioned for the health of their systems. A power source this advanced could even sustain a paradox! Surely those kinds of goals aren't worth giving up on just because progress can be misused?"

When the Doctor hesitates, the Master snakes his arms around the Doctor's waist from behind, splays a hand over the Doctor's stomach, nestles his chin into the Doctor's shoulder. "It'll win me the kind of immediate recognition that a millennium of faithful service could never buy. Within six months of unveiling the plans I'll be President of Gallifrey, the most powerful man in the universe, if I play my cards right. We'll have everything we ever wanted, for ourselves and for each other and for Rose. Can you really say no to that?"

The Doctor turns his head to meet the Master's eyes. "There's so much that could go wrong," he says seriously. "Isn't what we have now enough? We've got each other and our little girl. Within a century or two they're bound to finally give one of us a TARDIS, and then we can go traveling, like we've always wanted. Isn't that..."

"I'm tired of waiting to be _given_ what I want," the Master snaps. "We'll never have anything unless we _take_ it, and that's what I intend to do." Catching the Doctor's fleeting worried look, the Master relaxes his sneer. "Do we have to talk about this now? It'll be decades, centuries maybe, before I've worked out all the details. Right now it's just a science project, a hobby to tinker with." He smiles his most winning smile. "I may just have an opening for a charming assistant, to hand me tools and make me tea." He slides his hands possessively over the Doctor's body. "Are you interested in the position?"

The Doctor twists in the Master's embrace, turning them face to face and slipping his arms around the Master's waist. "Have I ever lacked an interest in any position you proposed?"

"Not that I recall," the Master smirks, pressing his body into the Doctor's, "but I certainly wouldn't mind refreshing my memory. Would you object, for example, if I wanted to..."

A high wail drifts in from the other room. With a quick, regretful kiss, the Doctor bustles off to see to the baby, leaving the Master alone with his plans.

*

Three years later, the Master is forced to acknowledge that 'hobby' is less the right word than 'fixation.'

It's the end of a full day in his lab. He's been engaging in a very techy and delicate experiment, trying to resolve a conflict between his anti-gravity and poly-temporal stabilization fields that threatens to set him back to square one. The calibration has to be pinpoint accurate, and he can barely move while the anti-gravity field is operating for fear of sending the whole thing flying. He's so close to resolving the issue, he can feel it in his bones, when the lab door slides open, sending in a current of air from the hall. The fragile, floating experiment he's been working at is instantly blown against the wall, and shatters into a dozen irreparable pieces. He turns to the doorway, furious, his eyes flashing fire.

" _Damn_ it! That was _hours_ of work! What the _fuck_ did you do that for, Doctor, _why_ can't you _ever_ bloody _knock_?"

A tiny blonde head peeks out from behind the Doctor's knees. "Your daughter would appreciate it if you could pull yourself away from your test tubes for long enough to read her a bedtime story," says the Doctor, in a dangerously quiet tone. "Might you perhaps be persuaded to grant that humble request?"

The Master blanches. "Rose," he says, hurrying over to kneel beside the Doctor and gather his wide-eyed daughter into his arms. "I'm sorry if I scared you, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm not scared, Papa," she lies bravely, over a wibbling lip. "That would be a very irrational response."

"Yes, it would," he says, smoothing her hair. "We both know what a softie I am, don't we? A good breeze could blow me over. Go ahead, try." He indicates a spot on his cheek. Rose, after a tentative moment of hesitation, puffs out her own little cheeks and blows, and the Master collapses dramatically onto the carpet, dragging his giggling daughter with him so that she lands on his chest. She props her elbows on his collarbone and looks down at him.

"You're very silly, Papa," she informs him.

"The ultimate in irrationality," he agrees. "Now, what's this I hear about a bedtime story?"

"Well," she says, "I could read the book myself, of course, but you're _much_ better at doing the voices."

"Anything for my princess," he declares, and gathers her up, heading for her bedroom. "Trans-temporal physics tonight, or something more in the fairy-tale line?" As he stands, the Doctor catches his eye, and rests a hand on his arm.

 _A very neat save_ , the Doctor says, telepathically, vinegar in his tone even without using his voice.

 _You know I wouldn't have snapped like that if I'd known she was there, Doctor._

 _And would it have been all right, if she hadn't been there? What's happening to you, Master?_

 _This is the wrong time to have this discussion, Doctor_ , the Master reminds him.

 _It always is. Within an hour you'll be pretending nothing's happened, coddling me exactly the same way you just did Rose, all sweetness and light._

 _Wouldn't you prefer me all sweetness and light?_

 _I would prefer to have my husband back, not just a charming mask that sometimes slips._

"Daddy, are you going to stay and hear my story? Papa does a very good Big Bad Wolf."

"I know he does, honey," says the Doctor. "I know he does."

*

The Project, which certainly deserves the capital, grows slowly to consume ever more of the Master's attention. The Doctor doesn't complain about the time they aren't spending together, or about the perfunctory, distracted nature of the sex they're having so much less of now. The Master knows that the Doctor resents both of those, but he channels his frustration into pestering the Master incessantly about the time he isn't devoting to Rose. The Doctor pushes so hard that the Master agrees to set aside his research for a year once Rose turns seven, to savor her last months at home. He honestly tries to make good on the promise, but within six weeks the Doctor releases him from his pledge.

"It's no good your body being here, if your mind is still bent on that _thing_ every waking minute," the Doctor says primly, his lips set tight with disappointment, not even looking over as he busies himself with changing out of his clothes for the night.

The Master feels his own expression sour. Why can't he make the Doctor understand? He's tried so many times to explain that he's doing this for love of them. He's giving every single ounce of himself for the Doctor and their little girl, and this is the thanks he gets. The Doctor is going on again, lecturing, hectoring, _doubting_ him. They've had this fight again and again—different words, different moments, but the same substance. "You can't just push everything else to the side indefinitely..." the Doctor is saying, an oft-quoted refrain, and the Master is just so fucking _sick_ of it, why won't the Doctor just stop, why can't he see it, why can't...

Something jackknifes sharply in the Master's hearts. He feels their beat pounding in his head, a throbbing rhythm. Before he's quite sure what's happening the Doctor is underneath him, and he's grinding their hips viciously together.

"Shut. Up. If you won't understand, then just _shut up_ ," he growls, and bends down to take an unmerciful kiss, biting the Doctor's lower lip soundly, pushing violently into his mind without any warning. The Doctor's look when they part is one of utter shock, but the Master sees arousal in the Doctor's eyes, feels it in the cock stirring against his belly, tastes it in the Doctor's neurons fizzling through his mind. _That's_ how the Doctor should look at him, the Master thinks, with rich satisfaction. Needy and needed, thinking only of him.

The Doctor tries to sit up, and the Master pins him down again, hard, one of his hands capturing the Doctor's wrists over his head. The Doctor's hips buck sharply at that, but not in anything like resistance. The Master kisses him again, again, harder, more demanding, his tongue giving no quarter. They're already shirtless, and it only takes his one free hand to strip off the Doctor's trousers. The Master doesn't bother to remove his own, just pulls them open, and he can feel the Doctor's desire bleeding through their coupled minds as he watches the contrasting colors, stark black trousers and his own pale thighs and the dusky red of the Master's cock. There would be something almost businesslike in the Master's efficiency as he spits into his hand, coats his cock, and thrusts himself into his husband, except that they're both shaking all the time.

Nothing about this is gentle; nothing about this is sweet. It's hard and it's angry, and the bright sparks of frustration and pain and lust that leap between their minds like static electricity leave the both of them panting and grinding and moaning and _aching_. The Doctor feels himself drowning in the Master's need, and the Master fosters that sensation, intensifies it, until the Doctor is so completely enveloped in the Master's mind that they form an endless loop of desire, the Master encased in the Doctor's body and the Doctor wrapped inside the Master's head. It's so _good_ , and then again it isn't, painfully strong, but there's no time for the Doctor to think about that because every bit of him is being taken, consumed. All he wants to do and all he can do is surrender, give himself up entirely. When he willingly relinquishes the last resisting corner of his headspace it's what the Master didn't realize he was waiting for, and he cries out, thrusts hard, _shoves_ into that last bit of the Doctor's mind, fills him up right to the brim.

It's never been quite like this before. They've been so psychically tangled up in each other they can't tell who's who, but this is something else again. It's a victory, a conquest, a zero sum game that the Master has won, and he's so high on the sensation that he can't see straight. The Doctor is _his_ , quite literally a part of him. His primal joy of ownership is equaled only by the Doctor's pleasure in being possessed, which illuminates every corner of the mind that is now the Master's as much as the Doctor's. It's far too much, but all either of them wants is more—the Master taking more, the Doctor giving more, more heat, more pressure, more friction, more need. It's all so impossibly, impossibly intense, so acute it hurts, and they only keep whittling that sweet agony sharper and sharper until they can't possibly take it any longer, until they've gone beyond the bearable and then some, until the climax that finally tears through them both is so violent that it feels like the end of all things.

The Master doesn't know how long it is before he comes to himself again, and finds, oddly, that he can't seem to care. He has more serious worries once he finally opens his eyes. The Doctor is lying so still, eyes glazed, that a bright stab of terror careens madcap across the Master's mind, down his spine, through his nervous system.

"Doctor?" he croaks. The Doctor gives no better answer than a languid blink. "Doctor?" The Master hates the edge of panic in his own voice, hates even more the Doctor's unresponsiveness as the Master pulls him into his arms.

"Theta?" he whispers urgently, desperate now. The Master isn't sure why he resorts to the childish nickname, but when the Doctor's eyes finally grow clear and lucid he can't resent the solution, nor the "Koschei" that the Doctor murmurs back against his lips. One and a half centuries of shared memories, as subtly unstoppable as the tide, wash over the Master all at once. He sees the boy he fell in love with, with his soft dark eyes and fine pale hair and the small body that was never strong. He remembers their first wildly innocent kiss, exchanged in chaste childish play before even their school days, when Theta had tasted of apples and honey, and their second first kiss, not innocent at all, when Theta had tasted of apples and honey and desire. They had been nineteen years old then, wild for each other to a degree that defied understanding and surpassed classification. It didn't matter what they or anyone else called it, this thing between them that only ever grew; it only mattered that it was, that it was mutual, and that it meant they belonged to each other. Theta had been afraid of it, at times, but Koschei had never doubted. He didn't mind Theta being afraid—in fact, he was almost glad. It was so _good_ to take care of Theta. Koschei knew that was what he was meant for, that Theta's very existence made Koschei necessary. Soft, sweet, unworldly Theta was _his_ to keep safe from the hurts of the universe, and that was what Koschei intended to do.

The Master comes back to the present with the taste of acid in the back of his throat, sick with self-recrimination and giddy with relief. "There you are," he murmurs gratefully, and kisses the Doctor's forehead, his eyelids, his temples, his cheekbones, his lips. The Doctor pushes back, just right, against the Master's worshipful lips, and touches the Master's chest and arms and neck with gentle fingertips. The Doctor shows no sign of reproof, makes no complaint for the unkindly handling he has just received. On the contrary, he mumbles an adoring, "Oh, love," as he's falling asleep in the warm compass of the Master's arms.

The Master is sore tempted to give in to the sweetness of the sound, and mark the evening down, in point of fact, as something of a success. But he swears to himself before he falls asleep—swears to himself every day for months to come—that he isn't going to take the Doctor's unthinking pardon as an excuse to forgive himself. The Master won't let himself forget that using the Doctor that way, submitting him to psychic and physical handling so rough as to qualify almost as violence, was wrong of him, nor that he cannot ever let himself do such a thing again.

He only wishes he could forget how absolutely _unbelievable_ it had felt.

*

"Doctor..." says the Master next morning, as he watches the Doctor dress.

"Hmmm?" The Doctor turns to look at the Master. While he stands like this, unmoving in his long robes, the Master cannot see the bruises on his arms and hips from fingers that held him like vices, cannot detect the slight stiffness of his walk, finds no remnant of the mental shock that had left him trancelike for so many terrifying seconds last night. The Doctor's cheeks are pink, his eyes bright with good-humor and their perpetual hint of mischief. He looks fine. He looks more than fine—he looks _happy_.

"Nothing," says the Master, pressing a quick kiss to his husband's cheek as he sidles out the door.

*

The Master is so confused and frightened by his own outburst that it's nearly a decade before he so much as touches the Project again. For nine years, he devotes himself to his family and his official work, telling the Doctor that his researches have stalled. It's mostly true, anyhow. Translating the unimaginable quantities of organic power produced by the Heart of a TARDIS into something cold and sterile and mechanical is a process so unintuitive as to be functionally impossible, but it's an absolutely necessary step if the Master is to achieve the stable predictability he'll need for his energy device. The Master has the preliminary designs for a containment reservoir that might reasonably be expected to hold the excess energy a TARDIS produces, but any method of directing that energy in or out of storage is evading him. Some sort of absorbent spherical cage around the TARDIS's Heart might perhaps do for collection, but he can't even begin testing until he can devise some sort of cabling strong enough to channel such enormous power. It'd have to be converted somehow, first...and that's where the Master's thinking seems to fail.

He pushes the problem around casually for years, toying with it at odd moments, occasionally even soliciting the Doctor's help. But as the time without progress grows longer and longer, the Master thinks of it less and less, until the Project becomes one of many childish dreams that he has stopped expecting to come true.

Many, many years later, the Master will decide that the great rule of life is that absolutely nothing goes according to expectation.

*

The breakthrough happens on a Tuesday night.

Rose is as stubborn as her fathers, and her teenage years prove a difficult time for all concerned. This time their fight, about her proposed areas of study, becomes spousal as well as generational when the Master ill-chooses a few words on the subjects of ambition, practicality, and a ridiculous affection for races other than their own. Insulting his husband's mother's species earns the Master a tongue-lashing from his headstrong offspring, and an icy evening with the Doctor once Rose has returned to her quarters at the Academy.

The night's bitterness translates to long sleepless hours, to a fuller mental expression of the constant low hum of dissatisfaction that the Master has never quite managed to shake. His life is so stable, so hopelessly _stuck_. What has happened to the daydreams of his childhood, or the ambitions of his younger life? All his plans, from the smallest to the grandest, seem to have gone astray. Even his Project, which had seemed so promising...but the Master has nothing to blame but his own apathy. The Doctor has a talent for avoiding habit, altering his life in little ways that prevent him stagnating even in the oppressively unvarying world of the Citadel. It seems impossible, but he still surprises the Master almost every day with the workings of that endlessly leaping mind. The Master rolls towards his husband, intending to kiss and caress his way into a reconciliation. His hand is actually in the air, reaching for the Doctor's shoulder, when it comes to him in a flash, from whatever fantastical realm houses ideas as yet unthought.

"The neutron flow," the Master gasps aloud.

The Doctor stirs, mumbles, only half-awake. "What?"

"The neutron flow," the Master repeats. "If I reverse the polarity of the neutron flow...yes, yes!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Doctor grumbles, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

The Master's first instinct is to dash straight off to his lab. But he spares a moment to let his joy spill over into affection, rolling the Doctor over and kissing him so enthusiastically that his eyes fly open under the onslaught.

"I love you," the Master tells his husband, a sentiment they don't often bother to voice.

The Doctor fights a smile. "Tell me again, and I might consider forgiving you."

The Master grins, unabashed and unrestrained. "I love you, Doctor," he murmurs, with another, slower kiss. "Forever."

The Doctor's lips quirk against the Master's. "Well, then," he concedes. The Master grants the kiss the Doctor leans up to take, but when the Doctor's arms move to wrap around him, the Master pulls away.

"Hold that thought," the Master whispers into the Doctor's mouth, and vanishes so suddenly that the Doctor can do nothing but gape at the fluttering tail of his nightshirt as it whips around the doorframe.

Six hours later, the Master awakes at the workbench in his laboratory, the Doctor's hand on his shoulder. "You have less than half-an-hour to be at work," the Doctor says quietly.

The Master notices the hint of disappointment and something almost like fear in his husband's tight lips. But before the Master can do anything about it the Doctor has pulled a vanishing act of his own, and there is nothing for it but to turn and face the day.

*

The Master makes up for his lapse that evening, making the Doctor keen with pleasure as payment for the Master's sins. He makes amends for the next night when he widows the Doctor for his laboratory, and for the next time, and the time after that. Then the inspiration is flowing too quickly, the pieces falling too neatly into place, and he spends two consecutive nights in drawing diagrams and scribbling equations and designing plans before returning to his own bed. Before he knows it he's spending whole weeks on his experiments, emerging only for work, food, and an hour or two of exhausted slumber before beginning it all over again.

One evening the Doctor sneaks up on him in the lab, and the Master nearly jumps out of his skin. He pulls on his mental armor, anticipating a passive-aggressive not-fight at the very least, but the Doctor's voice is cheerful and easy, only the tiniest hint of strain sounding through.

"I don't suppose you're still in the market for an assistant?" the Doctor asks, settling himself next to the Master, half in his lap. "Of course, we both know that it's a terrible waste of my genius to be an assistant to anyone at all, but I might just be persuaded to stoop to being an underling, if the job came with the right sorts of perks. Working under such a devastatingly handsome boss, for example."

The Master keeps his face as blank as he can, but is tone is hopeful when he asks, "You really want to help?"

Conflict is writ plain across the Doctor's features. "I still don't think you can hope to contain that kind of power safely," he says finally. "But as you're determined to do this anyhow, the only thing I can do to protect you is help." The Doctor reaches up a hand, slides his fingers along the Master's cheekbones and into his hair. "You need someone sensible on your side."

The Master snorts. "And how precisely is your presence going to change that?"

The Doctor raises his eyebrows, more flirtatious than truly annoyed, beginning to move away. "Well, if that's how you feel about it..."

The Master tugs the Doctor back to him, sprawling him fully across his lap this time. "I'd be honored to have your help," he says solemnly, smiling. "True, my intellect is more than up to the challenge," he grins, "but such mental powers as yours aren't to be scoffed at either. Between the two of us, we'll have the thing finished inside a month."

"I think your estimate may be a _touch_ over-optimistic."

"Nonsense. We'll have made the greatest breakthrough in modern science within thirty days, or I'll know who's to blame for it," the Master teases, tugging the Doctor around so his knees rest on either side of the Master's thighs, sliding his hands down to cup the Doctor's arse. "Punishments—and rewards—will be dispensed accordingly."

"I'm quite certain they will," the Doctor murmurs, thrusting his tongue between the Master's lips.

The greatest breakthrough in modern science certainly isn't made that evening, but neither of them consider the night wasted.

*

No matter how slowly things seem to be moving at times, the Master knows that the following century is a busy one.

Age mellows their daughter, in a way it never did either of them. She has the Doctor's kindness and the Master's cutting sense of humor and both of their brilliance. She's as unconventional a thinker as either of them, and not lacking for a certain impish streak, but possesses a practicality to which each of her fathers attempts to lay claim, and which each secretly wonders where she could possibly have come by. Her schoolmates adore her, her professors dote on her, and the Doctor and the Master love her with such a fierce pride as neither of them has ever known. Shortly after her hundredth birthday comes graduation day, and no one is surprised to see her at the top of her class, with marks which the Master is only too happy to admit are even better than his were. Rose accepts a position as assistant to one of the minor members of the High Council, a very impressive achievement for a Time Lady just out of the Academy. No matter what happens to her fathers, her future seems assured.

The Master and the Doctor are no less busy than Rose during her years at the Academy. The Device—which never needs any other name—is so radically different from anything that has come before it that virtually every component, every bit and bob and spare part, needs to be designed and built from the ground up. A TARDIS capsule itself is, of course, made to run on power absorbed by its living Heart from the Eye of Harmony. But the Heart of a TARDIS is far more than a storage vessel. It's an incredible organic machine, multiplying the energy it consumes exponentially via processes that even the most advanced temporal engineers on Gallifrey can only pretend to comprehend. The academics of their world, the Master comes to realize, don't know nearly as much as they think they do about vortex or even artron energy, and _certainly_ not about the trace huon particles present in a TARDIS's heart. It is, however, a truth universally acknowledged that a TARDIS produces far more power than it needs simply to jump into and out of the Vortex.

While the official credit for the discovery, cultivation and domestication of TARDIS Hearts and the design of the first functional TARDIS capsule are all laid at Rassilon's door in the official histories, the Doctor's researches in the dusty arcana of the Academy libraries establishes otherwise. Only the engineering work that permits a TARDIS to draw power from the Eye is genuinely Rassilon and Omega's, though that's an impressive enough feat. The other steps that led to working time capsules were made piecemeal, by a large number of scientists of varying talent and fame, and often enough during the initial stages of design the right hand had no idea what the left was up to. The one goal all shared was the discovery of time travel. Once that had been achieved, most alternate researches were dropped instantly, and those few divergent lines of inquiry that remained active fell by the wayside once their originators passed on. By a few hundred years after the first TARDIS took off, it was an accepted fact that the Heart of a TARDIS could only be used as it was already, its energy only harnessed via a single wildly inefficient system to power a single variety of vessel. It's that complacent mindset that the Master intends to challenge, with the Doctor's help, but it means forging an entirely new path, which neither the technology nor the science of their own age is well-suited to encourage.

Fortunately, they both thrive on adversity—and doubly so, when the end result will be the thumbing of their noses at millennia of their fellow Time Lords.

As the decades pass them by, the Doctor and the Master take up and discard approach after approach, design and unmake and remake part after part, use and abandon any number of new technologies that Gallifrey has never seen before. As so often happens in the pursuit of science, their tinkering leads to discoveries they could never have expected and results they cannot predict. Occasionally, when his paranoia will stretch to permit it—when he's absolutely certain that no one else could use his research to reach his ultimate goal ahead of him, or guess what he's really trying to achieve—the Master shares one or two of these lesser finds with the laboratories where he is still employed, and manages to retain and even advance in his position in spite of the somewhat lackluster performance that comes of his head remaining perpetually somewhere else. But it's not long before he grows disgusted by the way even these minor discoveries are mishandled and ignored.

"Once they realized the process wasn't reversible, they decided there was nothing more to be done with it, and abandoned the whole idea," the Master sighs. "Just because they'd got it through their thick skulls that the best use for a beam that compacts organic material was to shrink goods for shipping, ready to be expanded again once they'd reached their destinations. Don't they realize how much more it could do?"

"You had something better in mind, naturally," smiles the Doctor, from the other side of the dinner table.

"It'd make one hell of a weapon. 'You will obey me, or I'll shrink you away to nothingness,'" the Master points his fork at the Doctor, miming a menacing pose, "not such a bad threat."

"Not actually to nothingness," the Doctor points out. "Only to a hundredth of the original size."

"Still, that's bad enough, don't you think?"

"Very fearsome." The Doctor fakes a yawn. "You know what _I_ think, is, _I_ think they might have taken it a bit more seriously if you'd given the thing a better name. 'Tissue Compression Eliminator' indeed. It doesn't eliminate compression, it causes compression!"

"'TCE' is an _excellent_ name," says the Master, a bit defensively.

"You might have called it the 'Sonic Shrinker.'"

"I might, if I were willing to ignore the facts that that's a ridiculous name, there's nothing sonic about it, and you're obsessed."

"I am _not_ obsessed. There's good reason to believe that a sonic modulator operating in tandem with the alluvial damper..."

"Will do no good whatsoever, Doctor, and have a decidedly negative effect on the rate of heat exchange."

"Well...well, that is to say...all right, yes, probably. But all the same, I think it would be worth a try, if only to help stabilize the output from the gravitic anomalyzer..."

It's like this every night, and the Master loves every second of it. The Project is engaging, fascinating, a challenge far beyond anything he's ever attempted before, but with the Doctor on his side every step is enjoyable. When one of them does or says something brilliant, he's got the other to shoot him adoring looks, and make the next leap of logic; when one of them does or says something _exceptionally_ brilliant, it tends to lead to hot, hungry, _marvelous_ sex on the laboratory floor (or up against the walls, or over the lab tables, or, on the rare occasions they manage to wait so long, down the hall in their own bed). With the arrival and departure of their mutual two-hundredth year, a few signs of age begin to creep in on them—there is grey at the Master's temples, and silver strands wriggle through the Doctor's blond—but it does nothing to dampen their ardor for each other or their work. By the time Rose has been a year out of school, they've got what seems like a solid preliminary design—on paper. But between the actual construction, working out the details of a dozen minor parts they'll need to engineer themselves, cannibalizing and adapting another dozen that exist already in some form, testing and experimenting, they've got years of work yet ahead. And they've finally run up against the snag they always knew was coming.

All this time, they've been operating on an almost purely theoretical level. True, they've built dozens of prototypes and components, but they're missing the most crucial ingredient: an actual TARDIS.

*

The Master has concocted at least sixteen plots that cannot fail to win them the prize they require. The Doctor soundly vetoes the fifteen that have a greater-than-ninety-six-percent probability of provoking an interstellar war, and proceeds to gently remind the Master that the sixteenth is bound to fail because the Master has forgotten his own allergies to raspberry jam and reptiles of greater than forty-foot length.

"Ah." The Master chews on the end of his pen. "Well, we might try..."

"Just asking your superiors at the lab? We wouldn't even need a capsule capable of flight. It shouldn't be so very difficult to get their permission to requisition a decommissioned TARDIS."

"And risk the labs trying to lay claim to my findings, or some clever colleague getting ideas and beginning their own experiments?" the Master scoffs.

"The labs needn't know you've discovered anything until it's too late for them to do anything about it, and the only person on this planet clever enough to challenge you as a scientist is sitting right here, Master." The Doctor leans back in his chair, gesturing down his own body. Then he very nearly overbalances, catching himself only just in time. The Master considers pretending he hasn't seen, but that's much less fun than smirking. "I know just the TARDIS you need," the Doctor wheedles. "It's been junked for decades now. Nobody wants it. Just try asking about it, Master. If they say no, _then_ I'll consider backing you up on your scheme to slip mind-control drugs into the water supplies of the entire Corps of Temporal Engineers, as well as their families, neighbors and friends."

The Master sighs. "If it'll humor you, Doctor. Honestly, the things I do for you."

The Doctor strives to hide his grin, very ineffectually indeed. "Spoiled rotten, is what I am," he agrees.

"Thoroughly spoiled," purrs the Master. "One might even say debauched."

"Clearly, _I'm_ the debauched one here."

"Oh, there's more than room enough for two."

"Really? If there's so much room, then why are you suddenly sitting so close?"

"Guess, Doctor. Just guess."

"You're afraid of Vashta Nerada in the shadows?"

"Not quite."

"Aiming to conserve body heat, in case of a sudden drop in temperature?"

"Guess again."

"Might it be because you're planning to do that thing to my ear that I...hmmm...well...I can see that it..."

"Honestly," says a dry, amused voice from the doorway, "among a species that prides itself on being practically asexual, how did I happen to be born to the only two Time Lords who're completely insatiable?"

The Doctor's grin is of a wattage bright enough to light up a black hole. "You'll thank us for the good genes when you're older," he says, bounding across the room to pull his daughter into his arms. "Very much older, I hope. A vast, tremendous deal older. You're _far_ too young to be thinking of such things yet."

"You were already married by my age, Daddy."

"And look how that turned out," says the Master. "He got stuck with _me_. We both know you can do much better." He cups Rose's cheek in his palm, and she leans in to kiss his cheek.

"Not in a million years, Papa," she grins. "Or so I've been hearing all my life. False modesty doesn't become you."

"Any member of this family is, by definition, superior to the rest of the universe. But any Time Lord or Time Lady you marry will become a member of the family, and thereby earn the right to surpass even your father and I—though not you, as you happen to be unsurpassable. All that is basic logic, sweetheart."

Rose laughs. Her laugh is a thing of beauty, brightening every corner of her face. She's dressed in the red and orange robes of the Prydonians, in as simple and frill-less a style as fashion will stretch to permit. The colors suit her warm brown eyes and the golden hair cascading in waves down her back. She looks like the fire goddess of some primitive religion. "To what do we owe the very distinct pleasure of this visit?" the Doctor asks her, once her mirth has faded away.

"As a matter of fact," Rose says, sobering, "it has to do with new members of the family."

The Doctor and the Master stare at Rose, and then at each other, and then back at Rose. "No, I'm not getting married! Or planning on looming a baby, either. That is, not exactly. But...well, we'd better sit down, I think."

They do. The Master and the Doctor watch their daughter inquisitively. She's far too calm and self-contained to fidget, but it's a mark of her nervousness that she looks as though she wants to.

"Do you happen to remember my friends Margra and Thomax? We were quite close during my first three quarters at the Academy, but they didn't stay on to do graduate work."

The Master has a very vague recollection. Rose collected friends easily all through her school years, and this would all have been twenty-five years ago.

"They've been married some few years now, and their daughter was due to be de-loomed yesterday."

"'Was due to be?'" asks the Doctor.

"It went wrong," says Rose softly. "The artron loss was stronger than they could control."

Artron energy is a Time Lord's life-force. Normally, it is held in reserve, carefully conserved against the possibility of death; a Time Lord too drained of artron would be unable to regenerate. Only for a few very special purposes does a Time Lord actively use his or her artron energy, the most important and taxing of which is to give life to a loomed child. Usually, birth is a significant strain on the parents, but not dangerous. But occasionally very young Time Lords, whose control over their own artron is limited, have been known to push themselves too hard, draining themselves dry. And such accidents are particularly horrible because they come without the possibility of rebirth.

"Both of them?" the Master asks. That's often the way, with de-looming incidents. During the process the parents are tied to each other, as well as their intended offspring. If one spirals out of control, the other is usually dragged along too.

Rose nods, tight lipped. The Doctor rests a hand on hers, and she leans her head onto his shoulder for a moment. Then she straightens up. "But that isn't the end of the story. Their daughter lived."

"What?" The Doctor looks flabbergasted. "But...that's impossible, isn't it?"

"Very, very rare," says Rose. "It's been centuries since a child survived an unstable artron transfer."

"I'm sorry about your friends, sweetheart, but what has this got to do with our family?"

"She wants to adopt the girl," says the Doctor, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't you?" he asks, turning back to Rose.

"I knew you'd understand, Daddy," she smiles. "Are there any secrets of dealing with babies that I ought to know?"

"Well, you'll need a good set of röntgen blocks for the nursery. And _lots_ of diapers. And one of those bits of ribbon that sort of clamps a dummy right onto a Time Tot, so they can't fling it out of their crib no matter how hard they try. I can't tell you how much I wish someone would have told us about those _before_ the week you woke us up six times every night yelling for..."

"Wait just one minute," the Master splutters. "Rose, you're only just out of school! You're not old enough to raise a child, particularly not on your own. And I'm _definitely_ not old enough to be anybody's grandfather!"

"Now, that last one is entirely true," she says, scooting over to his side of the sofa. "You don't look a day over a hundred and fifty."

"Flattery will get you nowhere at all, young lady. Who is this child, anyway? You said her parents didn't take full degrees at the Academy. Is she even a Prydonian?"

"Don't be a snob, Papa. You sound just like Uncle Brax." Rose rolls her eyes. "He was at the hospital—I have no idea why they called him in, but he does tend to pop up _everywhere_. I asked him about the legalities of adoption procedure, and he gave me a twenty-minute lecture on precisely how his niece taking up with a lower-class baby would conclusively ruin his presidential ambitions, and how I was forbidden from doing anything remotely so foolish."

The Master pauses, thoughtfully. "Braxiatel is against the idea?"

Rose bites her lower lip, stifling a grin. "Very much so."

"Only think how annoyed he'll be," puts in the Doctor, laughter dancing in his eyes. "It'd drive him positively batty to see you standing up for her."

It's horribly tempting. The Master looks from his husband to his daughter, and then shakes his head. "You both know how to play me far, far too well."

"She needs me, Papa," says Rose, seriously. "She needs a mother."

The Master studies his daughter, trying to imagine her with a daughter of her own. "You're too good for this world, little girl," he says finally.

Rose wraps her arms around the Master's neck, snuggling against his shoulder. "Thank you, Papa."

"So," says the Doctor, "when am I going to meet my granddaughter? And does she have a name?"

"As soon as the loom specialists are certain she's stable. And yes," Rose wrinkles her nose, "unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"Her parents left it for her. It's an old family name, apparently."

"Well?"

"Well...Sausannagrokantaladungorkan."

"...say again?"

"No," says the Master, hurriedly. "Please, please don't."

"Susan," announces the Doctor, with decision. "Definitely 'Susan' from now on."

*

The day Rose brings Susan to meet her grandfathers, she is followed into their quarters by a team of men carrying what appears to be a large glass-fronted bookcase. The Master smiles calmly at the baby, chucks her under the chin, and makes an approving remark about dimples. Then he turns to their new TARDIS. His eyes flare and then settle into a smolder. Oh, this is _beautiful_. It doesn't matter that she can't fly. He's been wanting this for so, so long. He can practically _taste_ his victory. They'll have to start testing right away. If they hurry, if they're diligent, perhaps they can finish it in only a year or two. No—less than that. Within a few months, his name will be on every Time Lord's lips. Within a year, he'll be head of the first family of Gallifrey. _Everyone_ will acknowledge his brilliance. _Everyone_ will do as he says. He'll be made President, and he'll rule so wisely that Gallifrey will be in a new golden age before he knows it. He'll rule so well they never want to let him out of office. He'll have all the power he could ever want, and then some.

The Master is too distracted to see the Doctor look at him, over Susan's head of dark curls, with the expression of a man who has been ill before, and feels the symptoms coming on again.


	2. Chapter 2

"No, no, _no_! We've got to get the crystalline matrix fully entrenched _before_ we attach the sections of the superstructure, we'll never be able to manage it like _that_! Take it apart again!"

The Master storms over to a table covered with diagrams and littered with tools. "We'll be _months_ behind schedule if we continue as we have been, I don't see _how_ we're going to make up the time we lost when..."

The Doctor lays a hand on the Master's shoulder. "Master," he says, "you need to calm down. There's no need to..."

"If you're not going to help, Doctor, then go coo at your granddaughter and leave me in peace. I don't have time to..."

"Master." The Doctor's voice is soft but firm, as are his hands as they take the Master's. "I know you're eager to finish, but..."

"No," says the Master. He's not angry now, not snapping. He's hoarse and intense. He needs to make the Doctor understand. "You don't know, Doctor. I wish you did. It's...this...I need to _accomplish_ something. I feel like...like I'll split out of my own skin, otherwise. I'm so tired of being nobody. I have to _do_ something."

The Doctor's face is aglow with sympathy. "How could you possibly ever be nobody, Master?" he asks, reaching up to stroke his fingertips along one of the Master's cheekbones. He slides that hand back, into the Master's hair, and pulls him down into a deep kiss. "After all," he murmurs, smiling, against the Master's lips, "you are _my_ husband."

The Master smiles back, but says, "Yes, I am. And you deserve more."

"Than you? No such thing."

"Than anonymity and dullness, Doctor. Don't you ever feel that there's more we can do than all this?" The Master waves an arm at their little laboratory, in a gesture meant to encompass their rooms, their planet, and the entirety of their lives. "You used to, when we were boys."

"Sometimes, still," the Doctor admits. "I do want to go and to see and to do, very much. I'm just not sure that power or fame are necessary parts of that."

"What other way is there, Doctor? Doing exactly as you like in this universe isn't some kind of Rassilon-given right. It's something you've got to earn, one way or another."

The Doctor bites his lip, and glances right and down. Then he's looking back up, with a strange expression on his face. "Or steal."

"What?"

"I've been thinking, Master," says the Doctor. "Have you looked at the actual circuitry of our TARDIS? Not of her Heart—we know that's healthy. But everything else. I know they told us she'd never fly again, and it's true that the navigational controls are pretty well shot; it'd take us decades to repair those fully, and they might be a bit wobbly even then. But just to get her off the ground, off Gallifrey and _somewhere_ else...I don't think that'd be hard to manage at all."

The Master looks at him, incredulous. "What precisely are you proposing, Doctor? That we cobble our borrowed TARDIS back together with sticky tape and hope, hop in, and set ourselves reeling off for a destination we can't predict and can't control, unable to come home and subject to the harsh end of the law if we ever did manage it?"

The Doctor grins. "I take it that sounds just as marvelous to you as it does to me?"

"No!" cries the Master, horrified.

"Oh." The Doctor's face falls.

"Doctor, I know how much you've always wanted to see your mother's planet, but how can you suggest we just throw away our lives and our futures?"

"It isn't just Earth. There's a whole _universe_ to explore! Yes, we've got very long lives to be living, but there's still more out there than we'll ever be able to see. Getting a head start sounds like precisely the opposite of 'throwing away our futures.'"

"When we're so close to so much power, Doctor? When we can rule this planet instead of skulking away from it as renegades, with our tails between our legs? Never mind _our_ futures—what about Rose? How can you even suggest we blight her reputation that way?"

"Rose isn't a girl anymore, Master. She's a grown woman, and anyone who looks past her own achievements and merits to judge her by what her fathers do is the kind of fool whose good opinion she can do without. And as to power, I've no use for it. I've never wanted it."

The Master scoffs. "Don't be absurd, Doctor. Of _course_ you want power. _Everyone_ wants power."

The Doctor's mouth tightens. "As flattering as it is to be told that I don't know my own mind, I assure you, I _don't_."

"Oh, perhaps not _now_ , but in time you'll come to see..."

"I'm not a child, Master!" the Doctor snaps. "I don't want to rule _anything_ , and I'm quite certain I never will."

The Master's face darkens into a scowl. "Then stand out of my way, Doctor," he growls. "I have work to do, and I don't need your help. You'll thank me on the day I lay the universe at your feet."

" _Why_ do you have to _be_ so..." The Doctor makes a strangled noise of frustration, throws up his hands, and stalks out of the lab.

*

The Master has long since imported an armchair into a quiet corner of his laboratory. When that evening he retires there for a catnap between stages of his most recent experiment, he tells himself it's just because it's closer, not because he doesn't want to face the Doctor and the possibility he might not be welcome in his own bed. As it turns out, the choice has both its benefits and its detractions.

On the one hand, it means that the screaming that wakes him is so loud it scares him half to death. On the other hand, it means he's near enough at hand to save the Doctor's life.

The Master has never been so terrified. The Doctor is standing with his back to the Master, and he's surrounded by some sort of fierce blue-white light, and he's convulsing, far more quickly and dramatically than can possibly be natural, and he's _screaming_. The Master doesn't have time to think—he just leaps from his chair, grabs the Doctor by the shoulders, and yanks him away from the force that seems to be holding him. The glow diminishes, banished to a series of sparks emanating from a small black metal box complete with dangling wires that sits on the table in front of them, and the high wine the device has been emitting dies slowly down. The Doctor collapses backwards into the Master's arms, completely still and silent now, and that sudden dead weight sends them both crashing to the floor.

"Doctor!" The Master struggles to sit up. "Doctor, say something, _please_!"

There is a faint groan, and the Master gasps in relief. "Doctor! Oh, thank Rassilon, you aren't..." He finally manages to sit, and pulls the Doctor's head into his lap.

Then he sees the Doctor's face.

*

"I think you look distinguished, Daddy," is Rose's characteristically tactful spin. Susan is far less helpful. At only eight months old, the change is too dramatic for her to comprehend; the first time the Doctor tries to hold her, after, she doesn't recognize him at all, and fusses for her mother. It's not long before she grows accustomed to the transition, however, and soon the two of them are fast friends again.

The Master only wishes he could adjust so easily.

The story of that night, as the Doctor tells it, goes something like this: he'd felt sorry about their earlier fight, and come looking for the Master. As is so very typical of the Doctor, he was distracted within an inch of his goal. A rabble of disused parts removed from their TARDIS to permit for easier access to its Heart had been scattered across one of the lab tables, and the sonic microfield manipulator had caught his attention. It had occurred to him that the part might be useful, with a little tinkering, and, with a glance at the Master—sleeping soundly, best not to disturb him anyhow—he'd settled in to do just that. The Doctor insists he understands perfectly well how the device works, and that the accident had been a result of slippery fingers and fumbling contact between precisely the wrong tangle of wires. The Master, for his part, finds it difficult to care whether the Doctor's intellect or his coordination was at fault. He only cares that, in a matter of moments, his husband has become an old man.

The vibrations from the microfield manipulator had stimulated the Doctor's living tissue a thousand times more strongly than any natural impulse, aging him in an instant from a hale and hearty man in the prime of his life to a white-haired gentleman whose bones creak when he stands, and whose new habit of carrying a walking stick is occasionally far more necessary than he cares to let on. It ought to have been half a millennium before he reached this apparent age. Those five hundred years have melted away like sugar on a child's tongue, and the Master is beginning to lose hope that they'll ever get them back.

They try, of course, to reverse the process. But it's far too dangerous to test any such device on a living Time Lord, and experimentation on animal subjects or cadavers is unheard of in the Citadel, where medical science is so unnecessary as to be almost non-existent. The Master offers himself as a lab rat without a moment's hesitation.

"Don't be a fool," snaps the Doctor, his voice deeper than it used to be, and genuinely angry. "Do you think I want you killing yourself trying to add just a few years to my life? And I'll not go trying it again, either. I'll be young again in my next body. It isn't worth taking stupid risks just to stroke my own vanity—or yours, Master. I'm sure you can't like being married to such a wreck."

"I'm married to _you_ , Doctor. No matter what, that's better than any other way I could possibly be." He pulls the Doctor into a kiss, but the Doctor soon retreats again.

"You don't need to pretend," he mutters. "I..."

The Master has no intention of waging this battle with words. He does it with his lips instead, hard and passionate against the Doctor's, and with his hands, stroking needily over the Doctor's body. _You're_ my _Doctor—forever_ , he whispers into the Doctor's mind, still kissing him. _How could a few grey hairs possibly change that?_

For that night, he wins the argument. But the Master knows it doesn't go away, just lurks somewhere behind the Doctor's eyes. It's _infuriating_. Their bodies aren't programmed to respond to the physical appearance of a partner—that would be very foolish among a people who change their skins many times in the course of a life. The exterior signs of age or youth are useless to their race, indicating as they do only the progression of a single regeneration rather than an entire regenerative cycle. It's inconceivable to the Master that he could ever need the Doctor less simply because his body has grown old.

But the Doctor is an oddity among their species. His unconventional mind is why the Master loves him, but occasionally it is _very_ inconvenient. Alone amongst the Time Lords of Gallifrey, the Doctor's ancestry isn't purely Gallifreyan. Alone amongst the Time Lords of Gallifrey, the Doctor watched his human mother fading away from old age while he was still only a boy in school. To the Doctor, the new wrinkles on his face don't mean wisdom or experience or maturity. They mean decay and decrepitude, and more than that. Only a tiny part of the Doctor's genetic makeup is non-Time Lord, but fear of ending is an instinct bred deeper than marrow. The Doctor retains enough of the latent age prejudice of the human species to see death now when he looks in the mirror, and to expect the Master to see it too.

The Master doesn't know how to make him understand, and it isn't the only problem. The Doctor's temper has suffered badly in the change, as the many inconveniences of his aged form weigh him down. The Master hasn't exactly ever had the patience of a saint himself, and the timing of all of this couldn't be worse. He's getting near enough to a functional prototype on his Device that all he wants to do is work. He'd had distractions enough to begin with, the everyday time-drains of marriage and fatherhood and grandfatherhood and employment, without one more in the form of the Doctor's strange new insecurities. The Master is torn between the desire he's always had to protect and cosset his own, and his broader ambitions to do what's best for them all in the long term, and take the position in life they deserve.

The Master manages a whole week without returning to his work. He's as gentle and as good to the Doctor as he can possibly manage to be. And on the eighth night he suggests, tentatively, that they never finished testing the electron flux inhibitor, and would the Doctor perhaps like to help him with that?

"I have no intention of having anything more to do with that infernal contraption of yours," the Doctor announces. "I told you from the very beginning that it was dangerous to play with that kind of power, and here I've gone and proven myself right. I don't think either of us ought to so much as touch the thing again."

The Master gapes. "Surely you're joking, Doctor."

"Surely I'm not," he harrumphs. "I might have known you'd be unreasonable about it."

" _I'm_ being unreasonable! Doctor, we've come so far—how can you _possibly_ just drop it all and walk away?"

"Just like this," says the Doctor, as he turns and strides off.

*

Nothing the Master can do will change the Doctor's mind. He argues, wheedles, coaxes and bribes, and when those fail he tries giving the Doctor time. None of them work. The Doctor remains stolidly set against lifting so much as a finger to help his own husband achieve his greatest goal. Eventually the Master resigns himself to finishing the Device alone, but the work is much slower without the Doctor's intellect bolstering his own, and much less enjoyable without the Doctor's companionship. The Master gloomily readjusts his timetable to years, not months, and budgets in frequent extra hours for the Doctor's lectures. The Master knows very well that the Doctor isn't going to just let the question drop, and he doesn't. But each of them has always been just as hard-headed as the other; they _are_ the rock and the hard place that they're now both stuck between. Neither of them is going to abandon the issue, and neither is going to surrender, and the longer things go on, the worse everything becomes.

The solution, as the Master sees it, is simply for him to finish the Device as soon as he possibly can. Once it's done, they can stop fighting. Everything will be perfect, once it's done. The less time spent getting there, the better. And so he rushes on full speed, more frantically than ever. Time Lords need very little sleep to get by, and still the dark circles grow larger and larger beneath the Master's eyes. He's spending perhaps two nights a month in his own bed. By the end of the first year after the accident, the Doctor stops sneaking into the lab at night to tuck a blanket around the Master in his armchair. The Master misses that warmth. He misses so much of the warmth of what their marriage used to be. He misses the Doctor's company and his conversation. He misses a man who spends most of his time only a few doors down the hall, and has somehow become inaccessible.

Surprisingly, their sex life is the one element of their marriage that remains remarkably in-tact. More than just in-tact, as a matter of fact. All the words they aren't saying, all the conflicts they cannot resolve are channeled into the urgent press of hungry bodies and the perfect slide of sweat-slick skin, into fantastical curlicues of sensation that they thread through each other's minds with the precision of surgeons and the passion of true artists. The Doctor's aged form may limit his flexibility, but he makes up for it with his inventiveness; the Master's perpetual state of near-exhaustion may diminish his stamina, but he atones for it with the intensity of his every look and touch. No matter what, the Master always finds the time to make for _this_ , because it'll be no good having everything, if it comes at the cost of the Doctor's love—and because, as good as he is at playing long games, he needs some short-term satisfaction, too.

*

It's shortly after Susan's fourth birthday on the evening when the Doctor comes positively dancing into the Master's lab, skipping and laughing and humming to himself in absolute _joy_.

"Master. Master! You'll never guess. Look. Look!"

He thrusts a piece of paper a centimeter or two from the Master's nose, but gives him no time whatever to read it before pulling the Master out of his chair and waltzing him around the lab. The Doctor used to be prone to this sort of ebulliently physical expression of excitement at the least provocation, but since his accident his old bones have limited him in that respect. Whatever has provoked this must be important indeed.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"I've finally got clearance! Permission to take a TARDIS off-world for a whole week, and you, too!"

"What!" the Master gasps. "Doctor, that's wonderful! We're going to Earth, I presume."

The Doctor shakes his head. "Arcadia."

The Master's eyes widen. "Arcadia! I've always wanted to see Arcadia!"

The Doctor smiles, almost shyly at first, and then all over his face. "I know that, you dunderhead."

The Master stops dead, staring at his grinning husband. "You..." he splutters, and then decides that words are completely useless anyway, and kisses the Doctor like kissing him is the best idea he's ever had, which he's not at all certain it isn't. "When do we leave?" he asks, several minutes later.

"Right now!" laughs the Doctor. "Come on, come on, come on! Allons-y!"

" _Avec plaisir, Docteur_ ," replies the Master, his accent flawless, as they dash headlong out the door.

*

Neither of them is really surprised when they end up playing an integral part in the Serv-O-Mat rebellion they've ostensibly come to Arcadia to observe. Not _really_.

"This is very, very wrong of us," observes the Doctor calmly, as he dabs two streaks of silver paint across the Master's cheekbones as a sign of solidarity with their oppressed mechanical brethren.

"We're going to be in _such_ trouble when we get home," the Master agrees, his tone equally unruffled, as he gives the Doctor's face a similar treatment. He wipes his fingers carefully on his handkerchief before straightening the plain black cravat the Doctor has adopted as a part of his local garb.

"Shall we, then?" the Doctor asks, one hand clutching his lapel, offering the Master his other arm.

"With pleasure, Doctor," says the Master, taking it, and stepping out of their TARDIS into the makings of a very promising mob.

*

When they get back to the TARDIS, after a very, very narrow escape, they are both babbling a mile a minute.

"Leading our troops into battle..." says the Master.

"Leading those poor souls to freedom..." says the Doctor, simultaneously.

"...it was _brilliant_ ," they finish in unison.

*

The official representation, in the form of one Cardinal Braxiatel, is waiting for them the moment they arrive home.

"If these altered Matrix records are correct," Braxiatel fumes, "then _neither_ of you is ever going to so much as _look_ at a TARDIS _ever again._ You're lucky the CIA doesn't want to have a talk with you; they've written it off as youthful foolishness. How I was ever so cursed as to be related to..."

"Sod off, brother mine," singsongs the Doctor, as he and the Master swagger genially back towards their own little corner of the Citadel.

*  
The night of their return, the Master sneaks off into his laboratory just after dinner, in a moment when the Doctor is distracted. He's missed working on his Device less than he would have imagined, during their travels—maybe he did need a break. But it's been nearly a full week, now, and he's beginning to get antsy. He can squeeze in a few hours of work tonight to begin to make up for all that lost time.

He's only been ten minutes in the lab when the door opens, and the Doctor slides in beside him on his bench. The Doctor reaches out and gently takes the Master's hand.

"Doctor..."

"No, you listen to me this time. Just for a few minutes, Master."

The Master nods. Easier just to get it over with.

"I'm not going to try to make you stop work altogether, not today. But slow down. You've been working yourself to the bone lately. Please slow down. I love you, Master. Be good to yourself, please, for my sake if not for your own. _Please_."

The Master reaches up, runs a hand along the Doctor's hairline. "I've only just noticed," he teases, "how terribly pretty you are when you beg."

" _Master_..."

"All right," the Master concedes. "I'll try to be better."

"Thank you." The Doctor stays beside him, still holding his hand.

"Does this mean you're going to help me again?"

The Doctor shakes his head. "No, Master. I can't. I still don't think it's a good idea at all, tampering with such tremendous power. But we're neither of us boys anymore, and you can make that decision for yourself."

"Now, Doctor, what are the odds of _two_ major mishaps in less than a decade?" he wheedles, but the Doctor shakes his head. The Master's face darkens, but he nods. "If that's how you feel. Am I cleared to return to my work, then?"

"Not quite yet."

"Doctor..."

"But only," says the Doctor, running a hand over the Master's chest, "because you think I'm terribly pretty when I beg."

The Master glances sideways. "You're a very persuasive man, Doctor," he decides, and heads in the direction of their bedroom.

*

The Master mostly keeps his promise.

It's one more year before the completion of the first working prototype, and for eleven months of it, the Master forces himself to maintain a balance, working only as many hours as he can reasonably spare. But he's only got so much patience, and when the finish line comes into sight, he can't hold himself back any longer. He requests a brief leave of absence from the labs, which is willingly granted, and works 'round the clock on the final design. The Doctor remains stubborn, and so the Master recruits Rose on those occasions when he needs another pair of hands. She's there with him on the night when he puts on the finishing touches.

"I'm far from an expert, Papa," Rose comments, as she peers at the innards of the Device, "but I'd not wire the Stattenheim circuit to the macro-dimensional hexoplasm. Surely that introduces a certain risk of dimensional instability."

"Only a negligible one, and it has to be done," the Master calls over his shoulder, from the other side of the room. "It's the only way to keep the gravitational quotient under control."

"Nonsense," insists Rose. "You could always..."

"I promise, pumpkin, I've tried everything. I know that thing inside and out, far better than I've ever known the back of my hand."

"Don't you 'pumpkin' me, Mister Master. I know what I'm talking about," Rose scoffs, planting her hands on her hips.

He looks back at her, curling his smile into his lips. "I thought you were 'far from an expert?'"

She rolls her eyes affectionately at him. "And here I was trying to be modest. I'm _your_ daughter, Papa. How could I help knowing my way around a laboratory?"

"Yes," he says, striding across the room to kiss her on the forehead. "You most certainly are. Now, hold this for me one moment, will you? I need to...ah, there."

The Master can never remember whether he got a look at the Stattenheim circuit again before that panel was sealed. He'd thought he checked and double checked and triple checked every nanometer of his machine, but later, when the question recurs and recurs and recurs to him like a single line of music on a scratched record, he's never sure. He does recall something a little _too_ innocent in Rose's expression as she had hugged him good-night, promising to be back the next morning for the all-important first test, and he knows perfectly well what _he_ would have done, at her age. But he spends the rest of his life questioning, and is never, ever, ever sure.

*

There aren't many parks in the Citadel—recreation isn't an activity the Time Lords of Old held in any particular esteem. But there's a largish swath of red space a few blocks from the Master and the Doctor's quarters, and that's where Rose and the Master set up their test.

His Device is in three parts. The primary mechanism is back in his lab, a reticulate tracery of metal and wire wrapped around the beating Heart of his TARDIS. That collects and transmits the Heart's excess power to the second component, the sleek black containment disc, squat and cylindrical and pleasingly heavy, just the size of his palm and about an inch tall with a texture like onyx. In principle, it works very much like any other battery in the universe, except that the power it can and, in theory, does contain is sufficient to create or destroy or alter on a beyond-massive scale. The Master's not at all certain he couldn't move galaxies with the energy contained in his hand, and the feeling is heady past his capacity to express.

They aren't starting with anything so advanced, of course. The park where they propose to run their test is home to a tremendous orrery, a vast sculpture depicting the whole of the Seven Systems and all its component worlds. It's built to spin, moons rotating around planets and planets around suns, but is only ever turned on for the benefit of a once-yearly visit by the youngest class at the Academy, a teaching tool for the most basic level of interstellar geography. The Master thinks there's something so exquisitely fitting about using his device to make worlds turn, even in its very first moments. And he has every intention of showing it off to the fullest.

"We could all go, Doctor," he proposes that morning. "Bring Susan along with us. Make a day of it, if you like. You've always been partial to picnics."

"I think not," says the Doctor. "If it doesn't work, think how disappointed she'll be. Besides, I don't think it's any place for a small girl."

"Don't be like that, Daddy," Rose reproves. "Of _course_ it's going to work."

"It'll be educational," the Master wheedles. "Just think how proud she'll be, Doctor, being ahead of her class right off the bat. Not to mention witnessing a piece of Gallifreyan history."

The Doctor softens, just a little. "Test it first," he grants. "If it works, _then_ I'll bring Susan along."

" _When_ it works," Rose corrects.

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," says the Master, mock-seriously. "Throw in a kiss for luck, and I'll take the deal."

The Doctor brushes a desultory peck against the Master's mouth, but the Master catches his arm and turns it into something more, lingering against his husband's lips.

"Good luck, Master," the Doctor grants, and he and Rose head out to make history.

Now the containment disc has been wired into the orrery's innards, fiddled and tweaked and jiggery-poked until it _ought_ to do as it's told. It is an appallingly simple test, the Master admits, but to have such a simple, concrete, visible proof of his success will be sweet in a different sort of way, an extra layer of satisfaction.

"I think that's everything," he says, giving it one last look and stepping away. He weighs the third piece of the Device in his hand, the remote control that he intends some day to adapt for a variety of settings, but which right now is a simple on/off switch. "You stand on that side, so you can see if anything goes wrong with the wiring."

"Aye aye, sir," Rose salutes, with a grin. "Good luck, Papa."

"I've got the best good luck charm in the universe standing right here," he smiles back. Then he clears his throat, and declares theatrically, "Peoples of the universe, please..."

"Oh, get on with it," Rose laughs.

"Aye aye, miss," he replies, and presses the button.

*

 _I've gone blind_ , the Master thinks. And then, _No, I've burnt my retinas clean off. And my skin. And blown out my eardrums. And melted my muscles. And..._

He thinks he manages a strange little gurgle of a scream before the golden light overwhelms him.

*

The Master is told, later, that the blast from the explosion was so severe it shook the whole dome.

He thinks that's far too little, for an impact that leaves his life entirely shattered.

*

There is only one hospital in the Citadel. The Master has never seen it before. He knows the regenerative trauma must have been severe, if he ended up here at all.

"It was _too_ severe," the doctor tells him—not the Doctor, who for some reason isn't there at all. "Your second body never even opened its eyes. It's a miracle we managed to keep it alive for the few hours you needed to restore enough artron for another regeneration."

"This is my _third_ body?" he asks. Then he thinks of something far more important. " _Rose_ didn't have to regenerate twice, did she? I'll never forgive myself."

This anonymous doctor's face grows very, very uncomfortable. "I don't think I should be the one to...that you should worry about...not while you're still in such an early stage of personality imprinting..."

The Master's new eyes have gone wide and then narrow, his new fingers digging into the over-starched sheets of his hospital bed. "Where is my daughter?" he asks, deadly quiet. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Take me to her. Take me to her _now_."

"You oughtn't to tax yourself so soon, you'll..."

The Master leaps up, and grabs the man by the lapels of his lab coat. " _Where is my daughter_?"

"Dead!" gasps the doctor, clearly terrified. "She died instantly, full force of the blast."

The Master claps a hand over the man's mouth. "You're lying to me," he says, with ominous calm. "You're lying to me, and I don't give a damn why, but you're not going to do it again. You get one more chance, you sniveling little rat. Where is Rose?"

The doctor in his hold quivers as the Master peels his hand away. "I'm very, very sorry, sir, but there was nothing anyone could have done for your daughter. It was just too much for her system to..."

The doctor's eyes have begun to bulge, the veins in his neck to throb dangerously, before a small army of medical personnel manage to pry the Master's hands off of the man's throat.

*

They lock the Master in a zero room, on the grounds that his regenerative process clearly needs all the help it can get. He's well aware that he's more a prisoner than a guest, but he also knows that he's permitted visitors. He asks the woman who brings him food, and she promises to send a message to his husband.

The Master is 'kept under observation' for three full days, and the Doctor never comes.

*

Gallifrey is not a planet that believes in funerals. If Time Lords and Ladies _will_ be stupid or tactless enough to go and do such a primitive, organic thing as die, the civilized reaction is to say nothing more about it, so as to avoid giving ideas to the impressionable.

There isn't a funeral. There's just the Doctor showing up at the hospital, _finally_ , with Susan's chubby little hand in his.

"Come," he says, not even looking at the Master, and suddenly the Master knows that the worst thing that could possibly happen to him hasn't stopped happening yet.

*

The Doctor disappears with Susan the moment they get home. The Master can hear her shrill voice raised in question, the Doctor's low grumble answering, but he can't make out the words. He just sits still on the sofa, staring at his knees, and waits for the Doctor to come back. The suns are setting outside the window, the shadows spreading greedily over more and more of the carpet. The Master feels the fittingness of that, without being able to think enough to understand why.

Finally, a new shadow joins the others, this one emanating from the doorway. The Master looks up at the Doctor. The Master is afraid, in that moment, of that shape, haloed from behind like a spirit of atonement, features hidden by darkness like a demon of vengeance, but then the Doctor turns on the light.

It destroys the illusion. It doesn't make the Doctor himself again. The Doctor's face is never so blank. He never looks at the Master like he isn't really seeing him at all. The Master is still afraid—afraid of speaking, and afraid of saying nothing, and afraid that the Doctor will never be the Doctor again.

The Master hasn't planned for this conversation. Not like this. He hasn't been able to think, much, these last days. He hasn't been able to think about anything. He hasn't remembered his daughter. He hasn't watched her burning, again and again, in his head. He hasn't thought about his own failure. He hasn't considered the future. All those things will come later. But this conversation is now, and he thinks, briefly, that until the Doctor looked at him, a moment ago, he must have been expecting some kind of show that the Doctor is glad he's alive. He doesn't think he's going to get that, now, and it's leaving him even more at sea than he would have been. He doesn't think it's a good idea to ask.

"Aren't you glad I'm alive?"

The Doctor considers. He walks to an armchair, and sits down. "It doesn't matter to me one way or the other," he says finally. His voice is level and cold. "I don't ever want to see you again."

The Master is trembling, shaking in his chair. "What do you mean, Doctor? I'm your husband." Smaller, uncertain, "You love me. You've always loved me. You can't mean that."

"You're very good at failing to listen to a word I say," says the Doctor, in that same heartless tone. "I told you I didn't give a damn whether all of Gallifrey ever knew your name. I told you I wanted to go away from here. I told you I've never been ambitious like you are. And I told you again and again and _again_ that you'd get yourself hurt with that _stupid_ little toy. You never listened."

"You're right," the Master whispers. "I'm sorry, Doctor."

"But you're listening now," the Doctor sneers. "Now that it's too late. Aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then listen to this." The Doctor isn't emotionless anymore. He's _angry_. It's a cold anger, righteous and terrifying. "I don't _ever_ want to see you again. I don't ever want to _look_ at you again. I want a divorce, and as much of the universe as possible between the two of us for as long as we both shall live. As soon as possible."

"You can't mean it," the Master repeats, in a mechanical instinct borne of sheer panic. "You can't. You can't, Doctor. You can't hate me _that_ much."

"When I look at you, I see the man who murdered my daughter—who had every chance to save her life, and pushed her straight into the fire. _You did this_. _You_ did this. This is _all your fault_."

The Master's eyes are round as coins and wide as oceans. "No," he stutters, truly panicked now. "No, no! Stop it!"

"Do you know what she looked like, Master? After? There were a few bits of black bone, and that was all. That's what _you did_. That's what you did to _our daughter_ , our Rose. _You_ did. You and your _ambition_ and your need for _power_. Are you really expecting me to sleep next to _that_ every night?"

"I won't grant you a divorce," says the Master, desperately. "I won't. You need me to agree, to make it legal, and I won't. Not _ever_. You'll forgive me. You'll forgive me someday. Forgive me, Doctor, _please_ , say you forgive me, please say you forgive me, _please_." He slides off the sofa, crawls across the floor towards the Doctor. "I'll do anything. I'll do anything you say. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Please...please..." He scrabbles through his brain for something, anything he can offer. "I'll fix it. My machine. I'll get it right this time. And I'll give it to you. All that power, all yours, to do whatever you..."

The Doctor laughs.

He throws back his head, and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, the most horrible sound the Master has ever heard. It's _awful_. It beats in his ears like the pounding of drums, and stains his skin like the bright violation of blood, and clogs his throat and his nostrils like dying. It makes him wish he _had_ died.

"You'll _never_ make that thing work—and if you did, why would I _ever_ want it?"

"Doctor..." He presses his hands to the Doctor's knees.

" _Don't_." The Doctor stands. "Don't touch me, Master. Don't you ever, ever touch me again."

"Doctor," he moans, a supplication.

"No." The Doctor is walking away. "I don't need it to be legal, Master. Starting from tonight, you are no longer my husband. I have nothing more to say to you."

"Doctor, _please_!" he half-screams. He _can't_ lose the Doctor! He can't, not the Doctor _and_ Rose, not all at once, not _everything_ he's ever had, not _everything_ he's ever wanted. "Please, Doctor! I love you. I'll never, never stop loving you. I'll love you forever."

For the first time all evening, a tiny hint of conflict creeps onto the Doctor's face. He stands for a moment, swaying in the doorway. "I can't, Master," he says finally. "I'm sorry. But I can't."

And then he's gone.

*

The Master isn't entirely certain where he is. He thinks later that if someone had walked up and informed him that he was huddled in a pathetic, shaking, wet-faced, snot-nosed bundle of grief in the far corner of his own bedroom, curled up in a ball to make himself as small a target as possible, he would probably have believed them. But he doesn't really know it, at the time. And nobody comes, not for what seems like forever. 'Alone' is much too small a word for what he's feeling now.

He doesn't hear the door open. But he sees a pair of feet, with eyes he didn't realize were open, and is conscious that they weren't there before. Shortly after that, he deduces, sluggishly, that this probably means they aren't _his_ feet, because he's been here all along.

The Doctor kneels beside him. The Master shuts up and stays still, except for the occasional twitch of muscle that he cannot control or prevent. He flinches when the Doctor's hand comes into contact with his arm, but the Doctor's touch is gentle. He wraps himself around the Master, knees on either side of his body, so that the Master ends up curled against the Doctor's chest, his arms tucked close to his torso, one side of his face pressed into the Doctor's shoulder. The Doctor holds him tightly. The Master, fuzzy-minded and wary as a beaten animal, tries to determine the emotion in those arms. It isn't desperation. It isn't lust. It isn't anger, and it isn't a desire to hurt. It isn't any kind of captivity. And then the Master realizes that it's comfort, that the Doctor has him clutched as close as possible because that's the way to comfort a crying child. And then he's crying again himself, and clinging to his husband like he's the only solid thing there has ever been.

"Doctor," the Master chokes out. "Tell me it's going to be all right. Please."

The Doctor doesn't say anything. He doesn't shed even one tear. He just holds the Master, and keeps on holding him, and the Master keeps on crying until he ought to be so dried out he'll crumble up and blow away. He keeps sobbing after he's run out of tears, and keeps sniffling after he's run out of sobs, until the Doctor moves, suddenly, and the Master startles. But the Doctor's only reaching for a handkerchief, and pressing it into his hand.

The Master has to uncurl, move a few inches away from the Doctor, if he's going to blow his nose. It takes him a long, long time to manage it. Then he finds a pocket to hide the handkerchief away in again. He doesn't know if it's his, or the Doctor's. On the list of things that matter, that doesn't even make the top trillion.

Now they're silent and still. There is a certain brand of courage that comes of complete exhaustion, and that's how the Master manages to look up at the Doctor's face, and to keep looking for the never-ending while before the Doctor looks down in his direction. He can't or won't meet the Master's eyes, but his expression is far from impassive. The Master presses upwards in a rush and kisses him, because he needs this, both to give and to receive. For a terrible moment he thinks the Doctor is going to pull away, but he only freezes against the Master's mouth, and then his hand creeps tentatively over the Master's back, and then, sudden as a shot, the Doctor pulls the Master up into him and kisses him back as though a sufficiently hard press of lips will short out his brain and erase his own memory of these so-much-more-than-hellish days. They're both left gasping at the end of it. The Master's eyes remain closed, lashes still burdened with the heavy warm wrongness of the last of his tears. He doesn't know what's going to happen next, or what _can_ happen next. But he stays still, and is glad he did when he feels the Doctor's lips touch his again.

It's nothing like the last kiss. It's so gentle the Master can hardly feel it. But there the Doctor is, his mouth on the Master's, and his whole body shaking into the contact, and the Master can't tell if the Doctor is holding himself back, or giving everything he has, and he's not certain it wouldn't amount to precisely the same thing anyway, because neither of them has anything left to give. He drinks that kiss in, and, as the Doctor moves slowly, gradually away, feels himself falling asleep in the Doctor's arms, too exhausted even to open his eyes. He's just aware enough to notice as the Doctor half-carries him to bed and tucks him in. But he's not certain whether or not he dreams the kiss on the forehead just as unconsciousness drags him entirely under.

*

It takes the Master a moment to place the noise that wakes him late the next morning. It takes him a further moment to understand the significance.

It's the dematerialization of a TARDIS, and it means the Master's just lost the only things he still had left.


	3. Chapter 3

The Master has no plans for moving forwards. There isn't a 'forwards' to move. There isn't anywhere to go. There isn't anything to do. Rose is dead, and the Doctor is gone, and he's taken Susan with him. The Master's world has shrunk down to the size of his own skin, and he doesn't think he knows how to live in it.

A week after the Doctor leaves, there is a knock on his door. There are two Time Lords and a Time Lady outside, in sharp black-and-white robes that the Master recognizes. Some stifled part of the Master sparks back into existence at the thought of opening the door to the Celestial Intervention Agency in his bathrobe, with a week's worth of stubble on his face. The irony of it is enough to make him smile, very rustily. He thinks it's probably the very first time he's smiled in this body.

The two men are little more than goons. Everyone involved knows this from the word go. It's the woman the Master watches as she walks in the door, and she's the one who speaks. "You are the Master, also known as Koschei?" she asks him, polite and efficient and solicitous. "My name is Darkelastraquistahastrad. You know who I represent?" He inclines his head in a way that implies that he couldn't possibly help it. "May we sit?"

"Please," he croaks. He clears his throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You've caused us quite a lot of trouble these past two weeks, Master," she tells him, almost apologetically. "Beyond the question of destruction of public property, that...engaging little experiment of yours raised more than a few eyebrows across the Citadel, I don't mind saying. And people do tend to look to the CIA in troubling times."

"And why should that be, Agent Darkel—may I call you Darkel?" She motions for him to continue. "As I understood it, the CIA's purview is purely foreign. Civil unrest is the province of the Chancellery Guard."

"Technically speaking, yes. But when anything quite so...big happens, we do tend to find ourselves dragged in regardless. Quite against our own inclination, of course. You know how these things can be."

"Naturally." The Master hasn't had any practice smirking with this face, either. He thinks it's probably a work in progress yet. "From what I've heard of the Agency's methods, Agent Darkel, you've only got two settings. Either you're here to slap me on the wrist, or to make me wish I was never born. Whichever it is, would you mind getting on with it? I'm a busy man."

"Yes," says Darkel, dryly, eying his robe. "I can see that. As a matter of fact, Master, you've misjudged us. We don't want to reprimand you. Quite the opposite. We want to fund you."

"I...what?"

"We stopped by the day after the explosion, while you were still indisposed, and had a little chat with your charming husband. By the way, where..."

"Out," the Master snaps.

"Ah. Well, he was kind enough to permit us to have a look at your plans. Your research is positively inspired, Master, and particularly considering the fact that you've been conducting it alone, in a home laboratory, in your spare time. The practical range of such a device, if it could be made stable, would be almost limitless. I must say, from a personal standpoint, I find the potential to power paradoxes to be the most fascinating possibility. Do you really think that this little device of yours could establish a permanent paradox?"

The Master hasn't been thinking about the Device, this week. And he hadn't been thinking of it in and of itself, for the things it could actually do rather than as a stepping stone, for a long time before that. It's been decades since he thought about paradoxes. But he's thinking about them, very hard, right now.

A paradox is a chance to change the rules. To reweave history. To undo what's done. To alter the past. To rewrite what is written.

To raise the dead, and keep them raised. To give the Master everything he thought he'd lost forever.

"Yes," says the Master, slowly, thinking hard. "Yes, I think that it could." He looks her in the eye, his gaze sharpening, as the solution to the rest of his life clicks into place inside his mind. "So tell me, Agent Darkel," he says, in the clear, decisive tones of the man he used to be, "what can you do for me?"

*

What they can do for him turns out to be quite a lot.

Within a week, the laboratory where the Master used to work is _his_ , to do with as he likes. He's got budget enough for a dozen staff and all the latest tech. And that isn't the best thing of all.

"It may occasionally be useful for you to seek off-world advice. It only makes sense for you to have a TARDIS at your disposal. And you'll be needing one, anyhow, since you've no longer got the Heart you used for your initial experiments."

The Master hid the Doctor's departure from the CIA for as long as practically possible, but he knew they'd have to find out, sooner or later. His husband is now officially classified as a Renegade, the type forty he'd cobbled back to some semblance of function labeled as stolen. Nobody quite knows what to do about Susan. They can hardly grant her Renegade status, too, as a five-year-old child. But she's undoubtedly where she's not meant to be, and it's throwing the system into something of a tizzy. The Master can laugh at that, now, convinced as he is that he'll someday have both the Doctor and Susan back with him, and Rose, too.

That he is going to build a paradox has become a certainty to the Master, the new cornerstone he needed for a life that had grown meaningless. He is officially willing to grant, now, that his pursuit of his Device has become an obsession, a thing he wouldn't have admitted to before. It _should_ be an obsession. He'd thought there was a great deal riding on the successful completion of his Project since the beginning, but he hadn't had the faintest clue, before. He's got _nothing_ to live for, if he hasn't got this. But so long as he has, he's got the noblest cause any father could possibly pursue. He's fighting for his daughter's life, even after she's already lost it.

The promotion of his level of interest from 'burning ambition' to 'religious fervor,' oddly enough, is accompanied by a distinct increase in the level of his patience. He's got nobody to impress, not now, and paradoxes are paradoxes whenever they're built. He wants to live in a universe wherein his daughter was meant to die and survived, which will mean undoing the whole of history after the day that was supposed to mark her death and refashioning it. That'll be the same feat whether his paradox unmakes one year of the future or one thousand. It's far more important, now, for the Master to work well than work fast. He gets enough sleep, these days, though he still works long hours, still works every day, and doesn't waste time. He particularly doesn't waste time with the sudden crop of admirers who now consider him eligible, in despite of the fact that his marriage remains on the books.

The Master has to admit, they have a point. This new body is rather handsome. He's got very dark brown hair, and piercingly blue eyes, and several inches of height on his last form. He would be handsomer still if he would shave off his beard, he knows, but he has his reasons. In many cultures, in many corners of the galaxy, the wearing of a beard is a symbol of mourning, and he owes his daughter this much even if he is going to bring her back. Besides, he's always wanted a beard, and has only held off so long because the Doctor was against the idea. If the Master has to live alone, he's bloody well going to get _something_ out of it.

Only, sometimes, during the worst nights, the Master isn't sure he does have to live alone. He has a TARDIS now, after all. The Doctor may have run from him, but the Master could chase after, if he were willing to become a Renegade himself. He tells himself he stays where he is because the resources that have been offered him, the manpower and money that are being siphoned into the Device that will bring back his Rose, are worth the time without the Doctor. But when he's being particularly honest with himself—which is more often than anybody thinks—he knows that what really holds him back is the conviction that, even if he did manage to catch the Doctor, there is very little chance that his welcome would be anything approaching to warm.

*

Most of the Master's original prototype—the part that wasn't atomized—was left in pieces on a lab table by the Doctor, before he disappeared. Even if the Master didn't feel he'd be jinxing himself trying to reuse it, however, he's got sound scientific reasons for beginning completely afresh. He goes over the plans with a comb so fine the hair of a flea couldn't pass between its teeth. He makes any number of improvements and updates, corrects one or two very minor errors. What he finds most worrying, however, is the fact that he cannot seem to find any flaw significant enough to have caused the explosion. If the trouble was a mechanical error in the construction, there's no way he could know, now that the original has been destroyed. He's forced to operate on that theory, for lack of a better, but it doesn't inspire him with much in the way of confidence.

And so, when the second prototype is built, he's obsessively cautious. He heads out of the Citadel entirely, out to his family's estates in the foothills. He builds a simple testing machine specifically for the Device, little more than a light bulb hooked up to a cradle made to hold the energy reservoir. He programs his remote control with more options, including an extremely low-power setting with which he intends to begin. And he makes sure he's entirely alone, well away from anything and anybody except the red grass and the orange skies, before he turns it on.

His precautions pay off. This time, the ensuing fireball only kills him once.

*

The Agency is far from happy about this second failure. But the Master placates them with promises that he'll start completely over, from the ground up, and he does. He spends a full century unlearning and relearning everything he ever knew about the Device. Scarcely a single component survives the transition. He entirely rethinks the design, deciding that the idea of a containment unit separate from the main collection module has been the root of his problem. His new Device is far less portable, true, as whatever it's powering has to be hooked directly into the Heart of a TARDIS. But paradox machines are his primary area of concern, and the CIA's, as well, and those can easily be built within a TARDIS capsule, physically tied to the Device around its Heart. And so the research goes forward full speed, unstoppable.

This time, it isn't even close to the Master's fault.

The Master is a few years past his four hundredth birthday when his newest lackey takes it into his head that no one will mind if he conducts his own personal researches on his lunch hour. His area of interest, however, happens to be noxious gases, and he also happens to be spectacularly incompetent. The poison is so effective and spreads so quickly that the entire laboratory is killed inside of ten seconds. Once the Master, in his new, fifth body, finishes nearly strangling the young idiot to another death, he starts wondering how he's going to explain this one to the CIA.

As it turns out, he can't.

"We've been very patient with you, Master. You've had nearly two centuries, and you don't even have a preliminary prototype. If you'd presented us with something functional, even if it didn't do all you'd advertised..."

"Be reasonable, Agent Darkel! Our progress..."

"Has been plodding at the best of times. So far, the only thing your Device has ever managed to do is kill the people building it."

"This latest incident was..."

"...a prime example of _your_ poor management. We have no intention of scrapping these researches entirely, Master. You were right—there is tremendous potential here. But you have proven yourself completely incapable of carrying this project through to a successful conclusion. Your usefulness to this Agency is at an end. You will leave all plans and components in our hands. As of now, your access to the laboratories is terminated, and our association concluded. Good day to you."

The Master is left gaping in shock and rage. For a moment he stands and stares, considering any number of possibilities ranging from a vicious shouting match to outright attacking the insufferably smug woman sitting before him. But neither of those will buy him anything. He's lost all the high cards, but if Agent Darkel thinks that means he's going to lose the hand, she's got another thing coming. He's got to bide his time, let her think he's surrendering, just for a very little while. He settles for storming from her office and slamming the door hard behind him. For now.

The Master's mind is spinning as he strides away from Darkel's offices. He has no intention whatever of leaving his plans in anyone else's hands. The Master has had precautions in place from day one. No one complete set of plans exists outside of his own personal files, which he keeps on a data chip that never leaves his own person. But there is a physical version of the device, nearly complete, sitting up in those labs, and enough paper copies of the plans for various segments and components to make the Master uneasy. He needs to get into those labs and confiscate everything he can. He's not going to let anybody stand between him and his Device. It's far, far too important. He _will_ have his daughter back. If he has to lie, steal, cheat or kill—if it tears down the universe—if it makes the Master's name a byword for the rest of time, he _will_ accomplish this. He'll need his plans and his prototype and his TARDIS, and that'll mean breaking into the lab. And _that_ will mean leaving Gallifrey afterwards. It will mean becoming a criminal and a Renegade, and never coming home again until the day he's ready to build his paradox.

The Master thinks he ought to spend the next few hours—until night, when the labs will be deserted—in saying goodbye to Gallifrey. He doesn't. The Master hasn't slowed down and looked at the world around him since just after Rose's death. There are too many ghosts in the Citadel, too many memories of the Doctor and Rose and Susan ready to pounce at him from odd corners. Farewells are meant to be bittersweet, but there is nothing sweet to be found on the planet of his birth, not any longer. The Master only realizes now how glad he is to leave. He realizes now how long he has wanted to be anywhere but here. And so he spends his last few hours on Gallifrey, once he has packed his things, in making a few modifications to a little machine he once constructed from a spirit of pure scientific inquiry, transforming it to something more useful and more terrible.

Four hours after second sunset, the Master gathers his bag in one hand, the other resting on the Tissue Compression Eliminator in his pocket, and heads for the labs.

They've changed the security codes. He expected that much, and was more than ready. What he didn't expect was the guard, waiting for him inside the lab itself.

The Master doesn't think about it. He doesn't have time. He only pulls out his TCE, and shoots.

The Master hasn't ever killed anyone before, not on purpose. He's never even seriously considered what it might feel like. He isn't remotely prepared. It makes him want to be sick, and it makes him feel like a god, and he isn't certain he can disentangle the two sensations, and he isn't certain he wants to. He's absolutely terrified, yet he feels less vulnerable than he's ever felt before. All he knows is that there is a very small corpse on the ground, and that _he_ did that. He stares for only a very short moment, completely in shock, before some reflex he didn't know he had takes over, and he does what he came to do. Everything to do with the Device is bundled into the TARDIS standing in the corner, every bit of lab equipment he may need carried inside and stowed. Then he closes his TARDIS doors on Gallifrey, and dematerializes.

*

He's a Renegade. He's a Renegade, and a criminal, and a murderer. That very oldest of dreams, of the kind of recognition and fame that his own people could give him, has just met the last nail in its coffin. But he hasn't really dreamed that dream in a long time. Now he dreams of paradoxes—except his first night in the Vortex. The first night, he dreams of a nameless member of the Chancellery Guard, screaming as he shrinks to death, lying dead in a tiny form that makes a grotesque comedy of the image, red uniform staining his skin like the blood that seems only fitting for such a scene. And the Master wakes, covered in sweat, listening to his own pounding hearts, and thinking of two others that are no longer beating.

*

The Master needs a plan. He needs any kind of plan. He's unmoored without a map. He knows he should be sailing towards completion on his Device, but he's got no clue what, precisely, that should mean. He's not sure where his next step ought to lead.

It is, perhaps, fortunate that the Master has no very definite ideas on where and when to go, as he's learning that flying a TARDIS is much more difficult than it looks.

When he and the Doctor made their first trip off-planet together, their TARDIS had been programmed in advance—they'd barely had to do more than press a button and pull a lever each way. Piloting a TARDIS freeform turns out to be a completely different matter. The Master is vaguely aiming for the height of human civilization in the universe, the Fifth Great and Bountiful Human Empire, when their technological prowess had been at its height. Not that human technology ever got to the point achieved by many other civilizations, true, but it'll at least be easy for him to fit in there, and there may be _something_ they can teach him about energy manipulation that may restart his progress on his Device. It's worth a try.

Except, the Master doesn't end up anywhere near the Fifth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. He lands smack dab in the midst of the Monan homeworld, a place he is most emphatically not meant to be. Monandra has been sealed off from the outside world for millennia, and the Master is certain that he couldn't possibly have landed there if he'd actually been _trying_. To top it off, he seems to have left off the safeties that generally convince a TARDIS to materialize someplace inconspicuous, and finds himself strolling through his TARDIS's doors straight into the midst of the Monan parliament, which just happens to be in session.

There is a moment of confusion and scuffle. The Master runs for his TARDIS. The Monan Guard run for the Master. Unfortunately, the Monans' legs are six feet long, so as races go, it isn't the fairest the Master's ever run.

Most races in the universe can't tell a Time Lord from any number of other humanoid species at a glance. In this, as in the legs, the Monans are decidedly Unfair. For the first few minutes after his arrival, the Master thinks it's quite likely he's just managed to provoke a war between the two foremost temporal powers in the universe. The Monans see his arrival as not so much a gaffe as an invasion, especially because relations between Monandra and Gallifrey are now, as always, strained, and the Master can't say he blames them. He's got to come up with some kind of plan, and fast—and, as a matter of fact, the truth is surprisingly fitting.

"I'm a Renegade, on the run from the justice of the Time Lords," he tells them. "I'm a scientist, and my own people tried to stop my experiments. I was forced to flee. I could be an asset to your people. I can tell you about the Time Lords, if you give me access to the technology to continue my work. We could have a mutually beneficial relationship."

"Either you are telling us the truth, or you are lying," says one of the Monan leaders crowded around the Master. "If the latter, it is because you are a Gallifreyan spy. If it is the former, the Time Lords will no doubt be glad to have you in their clutches. In either case, there is great advantage and no cost to us in sending you back where you belong."

A murmur of approval spreads through the assembled Monans, and the Master swallows down a groan. He _is_ in trouble now.

*

The Monans aren't a fully hive intelligence, but their separate minds are networked tightly enough to make crime an unknown factor on their planet. They haven't got a prison to throw him in while they conduct no-doubt-interminable negotiations with the Time Lords over the Master's fate. The best they can do is an office door with a simple, old-fashioned lock and key, but they devise a brilliantly devious method of keeping him under control.

"This poison," one of his jailers tells him, while the injection is entering his bloodstream, "will kill you within six hours, unless you are regularly provided with doses of the antidote. The drug will never leave your body; as of now, you will require regular treatment for the rest of your life. Behave, and you'll get doses of the antidote on a schedule that will keep you alive, and be provided with the formula when we hand you over to the Time Lords. Escape, and you'll be dead within hours."

As soon as they've left him, the Master scoffs at the Monans' lack of logic. The Time Lords are absolutely certain to force a regeneration from the Master anyhow, for the crimes he's committed. This body is finished, one way or the other. But when he wakes up in his next skin, it can either be in the Time Lords' clutches, or in his own TARDIS, free. That isn't much of a choice.

Breaking down the door of his makeshift cell is easy. Figuring out where they've stashed his TARDIS, however, is somewhat more difficult. The building he was being held in, which seems to be some sort of fortress or palace, is enormous and labyrinthine, and the Master has to tread carefully to avoid meeting the Monans. He spends hours wandering, feeling himself growing weaker all the time as the poison spreads through him. He is about to give up hope when sheer good luck leads him into the right storeroom. He hurls his TARDIS into the Vortex as fast as he can run, and stumbles back to slump down against the nearest wall.

As first tries go, the Master thinks, as his vision begins to go black and then gold, he can't really count that one as anything of a success.

*

The next time, he ends up _nearly_ where he means to. The Sontarans are fairly technologically advanced overall, and energy is a particular priority of theirs, as their endless war machine always needs powering. The Master plans to offer them the same sort of deal he proposed to the Monans—an alliance, sharing their technical knowledge. He aims for a moment when the Sontarans have just achieved a significant tactical victory, and will be feeling strong, powerful, generous, and amenable to flattery.

He gets the century wrong, and catches the Sontarans at a moment when they've just suffered a significant tactical defeat, and are feeling weak, vulnerable, stingy and suspicious.

"Most certainly a Rutan agent."

"Undeniably so. Just _look_ at that face."

Death by firing squad, the Master thinks wryly, is at very least quicker than poison. And the Master has just enough time beforehand to lay the booby trap that will distract them through his regeneration. As his new, seventh body runs slapdash back to his TARDIS, staring dismally at the bullet-holes in his jacket and trying to wipe his last self's blood off his hands, the Master swears to himself that the moment he's in the Vortex, he's going to settle down with his TARDIS's instruction manual, and _memorize_ the bloody thing.

*

He does get _something_ done in his seventh body. After never having seen his second, and losing his fifth and sixth almost instantly, that's a considerable relief.

This time, the Master does indeed manage to make his way to the Fifth Great and Bountiful Human Empire, and, as it turns out, they have indeed made certain technical advances that will aid the Master immensely in the construction of his Device. In particular, they've devised a vortex energy control modulator that will work wonders for regulating the Master's power output, if it can really do as much as rumor claims. Unfortunately, it's nowhere near the open market, exactly the kind of secret that everybody knows about and no one can pin down. The Master spends fifty years working undercover in the government-funded corporate think-tank that devised the control modulator, inching his way up through the ranks, before _finally_ managing to learn the location of the prototype. After that, it's one quick TARDIS hop, and he's got the thing in his hands, and has made his escape.

Safe in the Vortex, the Master pats himself on the back and carries his prize off to his on-ship laboratory, studying it as he goes. From the looks of it, it really _will_ perform as advertised—or, rather, as-kept-Top-Secret—and that makes it well worth the effort he put into obtaining it. The first thing for him to do is take the thing apart, and see how it works. He can't depend on this specific component remaining reliable; the theory behind it is far more valuable than the thing itself.

The Master has almost totally disassembled the prototype, making careful notes of his progress, when he realizes that, as clever as he was in managing to lay his hands on it, he has forgotten one thing. He'd been confident enough in his own scientific skill to see no reason to take the risk of hanging around after stealing the prototype looking for the notes and documentation meant to accompany it. But if he had, he might have learned that one ought never, under any circumstances, bring the red wire and the blue wire into contact. He might have known that doing so has been known to release pulses of electricity sufficient to shock even a Time Lord to death.

"Oh, now, this is just getting _ridiculous_ ," mutters the Master, as he's blinded by the artron gold of regeneration.

*

The morning after he wakes up in his eighth body, the Master looks at himself in the mirror—black-haired and dusky-skinned, with a wicked nose, high cheekbones, deep-set brown eyes and the customary beard—and realizes that, more than halfway through his regenerative cycle, he's got precisely nothing he ever wanted.

He revises that assessment slightly a moment afterwards. He has got a TARDIS. But he has no husband, no family, no status, no position and no power. He's a failure and a renegade, and he's alone. And no matter what it is he's working towards, maybe that isn't all right anymore. The Master has his pride as much as the next man, but only a fool confuses pride for happiness.

Walking slowly to his console room, the Master makes his decision, and sets his co-ordinates for Earth.

The Doctor's navigation systems have been very badly damaged all this while, the Master knows. But if he's had _any_ control at all, Earth is the one place he'd want to visit. The Master's chances of finding him there are far from exceptional, but there may be some clue, some sign, or perhaps even...

The message begins to blare over his speakers the moment he materializes in orbit.

"Grandfather, if you can hear this, _please_ come for me. Please, Grandfather, I don't want to stay here any more. I need you."

The Master's TARDIS is programmed to recognize a certain pair of biorhythms as soon as he gets within scanning range, and his TARDIS has been blaring a warning all this while. But the Master doesn't need it to tell him who that voice belongs to. She was only five years old when last he saw her, but he knows.

Among the billions of inhabitants of this planet, it isn't hard to find her. She's made herself as easy as possible to find. The Master is horrified momentarily at the thought of Susan making herself so conspicuous; _anyone_ could have been listening, and not every advanced life form in the universe has good intentions. The Master finds himself hurrying, racing against an imaginary clock to reach his granddaughter before anyone else. He's got no idea how long that message has been active, and doesn't have time to determine whether it's programmed only to reach TARDISes and bypass any other form of communications equipment. She may not even be on this planet any more, the Master thinks, as he lands his TARDIS. Someone, something may already have taken her away, and whether or not it was anything friendly...

And then she's there. Right there in front of him, running towards the sound of materialization.

"Grandfather, I _knew_ you'd come for me, I _knew_ you'd come! And you've fixed the chameleon circuit, too! I...oh."

Catching sight of him, she stops short, and so does he. Susan should be more than two hundred years old. True, their species ages very slowly after the point of full maturity, but the girl before him cannot possibly be more than twenty. All Time Lords on Gallifrey age in the same Relative Gallifreyan Time, as does any Time Lord or Lady within range of a TARDIS. The Master knows that he and the Doctor will always be the same age whenever they meet, no matter how much they jump between timestreams, the same amount of time having passed for the both of them. But if Susan is so much younger than she ought to be, in comparison with the Master, she must not have been anywhere near a TARDIS all this while. Her apparent age now means that the Doctor must have left her here some two centuries ago in his personal timeline.

How in Rassilon's name could the Doctor _do_ such a thing? Even if they had been separated accidentally, and the Doctor's TARDIS too damaged to come back for her, why wouldn't he send someone else? Does the Doctor hate the Master so completely that he wouldn't consider sending a few words to inform him of the situation? He must have known the Master would drop everything and come running, no strings attached, if he'd been aware that their granddaughter needed him. In the worst case, the Doctor might have summoned help from Gallifrey—it would have meant turning himself in as a renegade, but what could that have mattered, compared to caring for the girl left under his protection? The only blessing is that Susan cannot be aware how completely she was abandoned, not yet. The Master has no idea how long it has been since the Doctor left her here, not in Susan's own timeline, but if she was old enough to have learned from the Doctor how to build the beacon that beamed her message into the Master's TARDIS, the Master doesn't suppose she can have perceived her exile as lasting more than a few years.

"You're not Grandfather," she says. "Unless...you haven't regenerated, have you?"

"Any number of times, since last we met," the Master replies, fighting to sound gentle in a body that isn't inclined to it. "And I suppose it's true I'm not who you were expecting, but to say that I'm not your grandfather is to somewhat exaggerate the situation."

Her forehead crinkles. "What do you..." She stops and considers his words, then says, slowly, "Papa?"

The Master had almost forgotten that Susan borrowed her mother's form of address for him. It hurts like he can hardly comprehend, ripping off two centuries of scabbing at a blow, leaving the wound as open and awful as ever. "Hello, Susan," he manages, swallowing hard, fighting the trembling in his jaw. And then, because he can't help it, "I've missed you so much, little girl."

He only realizes how true the words are as they're coming out of his mouth. Before the accident, before everything fell apart, the Master knows that there was some part of him that loved his granddaughter less because their bond was other than blood. He had cared for her for his daughter's sake, and liked her well enough, as children went, but that fierce, unstoppable pride he felt in Rose had been missing. But the knowledge that the whole of his family's future now rests with Susan—that she is all that remains of what once was good in the Master's life—has made her inexpressibly dear, the most important thing that the Master can imagine.

Susan stares at him, clearly making up her mind. And then, quite suddenly, she flings herself forwards, straight into his arms. "Oh Papa! Please, will you take me away from here? Will you take me home?"

Hesitantly, the Master wraps his arms around his granddaughter. "Of course I will, Susan. Of course I will, sweetheart. Come into my TARDIS, and tell me how you got here in the first place." She pulls back and smiles up at him, watery-eyed. Then she nods, and precedes him inside.

The Master sends them into the Vortex, just as a precaution in case anything is following, and then leads Susan off to the kitchens. She eats like she hasn't seen food in weeks, and the Master is afraid that maybe she hasn't, and keeps refilling her plate as quickly as she empties it. When finally her appetite seems sated he is chomping at the bit to hear everything she has to tell him, about her own time away from him and about the Doctor. But Susan is practically falling asleep in her chair, and so he leads her to the very nicest of the spare bedrooms, instead, and tucks her in. "Good-night, Papa," she mumbles, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, and it all makes him unsteady, and pained, and happy in a way he has forgotten how to be.

The Master doesn't really intend to fall asleep in an armchair in the corner of Susan's bedroom. He's glad, at least, that he wakes before she does. He wants to stay and watch her sleep, watch her breathing, remember that something of his family is alive and _here_. But she's just beginning to stir, and so he reluctantly slips out, off to fry up eggs and bacon, and a hash of native Gallifreyan vegetables. The Master rarely bothers eating anything outside his TARDIS's limited but not unsatisfactory capacity to prepare, but this is for his granddaughter, after all. She wanders in, curls sticking out in all directions, barefooted, swaddled in a camel-colored robe. It should make her look very young, but the realization that the heaviness of her eyes yesterday was more than exhaustion has the opposite effect. She smiles gamely, but it still doesn't quite brighten her face.

"Susan," the Master asks, after they've exchanged good-mornings and settled in with their plates, "how old are you now?"

She raises her eyebrows. It's an odd question for a Time Lord, especially for near kin; this is the sort of thing that ought already to be known. The Master knows down to the minute how old Susan _ought_ to be. But he's got no idea just how muddled her personal timeline has become.

"Twenty-one years, three months, seven days, eight hours," she replies. "Why, Papa?"

"Susan," he says gently, "it's been two centuries since the last time I saw you."

She stares at him, fork poised halfway to her mouth. "But that's impossible!"

"Not if you've been away from a TARDIS, I'm afraid."

"But that _can't_ be true! Grandfather said he could never be away from me for longer than I was from him, so long as..." she stops. "Oh," she whispers. "So long as I wore my TARDIS key. And I took it off, the day he flew away. Oh, how could I be so foolish!"

"How did you get separated from him in the first place? Surely it couldn't have been intentional."

She twists her napkin between her hands. "It certainly was on his part," she says quietly.

The Master stares. "What?"

Susan looks up, hesitating, and then the words fly from her in a rush. "Oh, Papa, he _left_ me! He just left! He didn't even give me a choice about it, not really. I thought...I'd been saying I wanted someplace to belong. A place of my own. Papa, I meant home! I meant Gallifrey. Grandfather had been making progress on the navigational circuits, and I thought he might be able to bring me home to Gallifrey. But he thought I just meant _somewhere_ , anyplace to stay still. And then David went and...ooooo, I could just _strangle_ David, I really could." Susan bites into a muffin, viciously.

"Who is David?" The Master hasn't followed all of Susan's monologue, but he's heard enough to know that he and the Doctor are going to need a very, _very_ serious discussion when next they meet.

"He...well. Grandfather and I were here on late-twenty-first century Earth, you see. And there were Daleks, and it was all very dangerous and thrilling, and David _was_ handsome. And so I kissed him, that's all. Just a little bit of flirting, and _one_ kiss! From what I knew about Earth customs in that time, that oughtn't to have meant anything at all! I was only curious." Susan looks at the Master, sideways, as though trying to gauge his reaction. He wonders just what kind of dictator the Doctor was with this girl, if she's afraid to confess to kissing at her age. "It honestly wasn't anything more than that, Papa, only then he went and _proposed_ to me, just like that! I know I'm not very smart, not for a Time Lady, but I knew better than to get married at _sixteen_ to a boy I hadn't even known a week, and a human at that. But I...well, I didn't want to break his heart. He was being very stupid, but I didn't want to hurt him. So I told him that I couldn't stay on Earth with him, because I had to take care of Grandfather."

"That sounds sensible of you, and kind," the Master approves.

"That was what I thought! Only, Grandfather was watching from inside the TARDIS, you see, and he thought I meant it. And so he locked the doors, and he told me that this was my chance for that settled life I'd been wanting. And that was all. He just...flew away. He didn't even let me get my things, or kiss me goodbye. Just...just gave me a speech about ideals, and then he was gone. He was gone, and he never came back!"

'Serious discussion' is beginning to transform to 'good hard punch in the nose' in the Master's head. How could the Doctor do something so irresponsible and thoughtless, in so many, many ways? But then Susan goes on. "I thought he did it for my own good, or that he thought so. But sometimes I...sometimes I worried that...I thought he was angry with me, before we got to Earth."

"Angry with you? Why?"

Susan looks positively terrified. "Because I asked him about Mama," she whispers.

The Master's eyes widen, and Susan mistakes the reason. "I'm sorry!" she gasps, panicking. "Please, Papa, don't be..."

"Angry?" the Master asks, incredulous. "You think he was angry with you because you asked him about your mother?"

"He never mentioned her. Not even once, Papa. I tried to talk to him about her, when I was very small, but he never would. And then one time he snapped at me, and told me not to talk about her either, not ever again, and I didn't. But he'd seemed happier since Barbara and Ian came on the TARDIS, and I thought that maybe it might be all right. And so I asked him what she was like, when she was my age. That was all. But he got so cold, and said he 'didn't care to discuss it,' and that I should go away. He was sweet afterwards, when we were on Earth, like he was trying to make amends. But I know he didn't like it."

The Master doesn't even know where to _start_ , not where the Doctor is concerned. But there is at least one thing he can do now. The Master slips from his chair to kneel beside Susan's, leaning up so their faces are almost at a height. "When your mother was your age," he says gently, "she was headstrong and brilliant and brave. She would have been so proud of the young woman you've grown to be, Susan. And you don't have to be afraid to talk about her, not ever again. You can ask me anything, or tell me anything, and I'll listen, and tell you the truth." He takes her hands, holding them carefully. "How does that sound?" he asks, his voice strained with too many emotions name.

She stares at him, almost uncomprehending, and then she pulls one hand away from his to press over her mouth as she begins to cry. For a moment the Master is terrified that he's said the wrong thing, and then she slides down out of her own chair and wraps her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Papa. Oh, thank you. Oh, Papa, I miss her. I know I was only little when she died, but I miss her so much."

The Master swallows back his own tears, and then gives up, and lets them fill his eyes. "So do I, Susan," he says simply, holding her. "So do I."

They don't say anything else, not for a long time. The Master lets his granddaughter make a tear-stained mess of his shoulder, and sheds one or two himself. When finally she's dried her eyes, he leads her to his library, settles her in on the most comfortable leather sofa with a blanket tucked around her, and takes the armchair next-door. They don't talk, for a while. But there are questions the Master still needs answered, important ones, and eventually he gives in and asks.

"Susan, you said you were sixteen when the Doctor left you. What have you been doing for five years? How did you get by?"

"It was easier than it might have been. I was lucky." The Master thinks that's almost certainly an exaggeration, but doesn't say so. "The Earth had been decimated by Daleks just before I got there. A huge percentage of the human population was dead. There were empty houses everywhere, and no government to keep an eye on things. I went with David to begin with, because I wasn't sure what to do, and because I thought it would be safer in the country. I put him off for as long as I could about marriage, but when he insisted, I slipped away one night while he was sleeping." That last phrase hits the Master a little too close to home. He must make a face, because Susan says, "I know it wasn't very nice of me, but you have to understand that I had absolutely _nothing_. I didn't even have both of my _shoes_ when Grandfather left me. I stayed six months with David, and then I began to make my way from farmstead to abandoned farmstead, across the countryside. I gathered food, and the materials to build my beacon. I tried to stay away from other people. And for the times I couldn't avoid them, I had this." Susan reaches into the pocket of her robe, and pulls out a pistol. The Master nearly chokes on his beard.

"Susan! Put that down, right now!"

She shakes her head. "I've got used to it, Papa. It saved me more than once. I was far from the only scavenger in England, and I looked like an easy victim." The Master is beginning to understand where that oldness in his granddaughter's eyes came from. "I probably would have been, if Barbara hadn't taught me a few very important lessons about defending myself."

"Who is this Barbara? And who was the other you mentioned...Ian?"

"Humans. Mid-twentieth century. They were teachers of mine, when I convinced Grandfather to stay still long enough to let me go to school. But they got curious about me, and found the TARDIS, and we had to take them with us. They were very kind to me. I missed them, when I was trapped on Earth."

"And they're still traveling with your grandfather?"

"They were when I left. But if what you said is right, that was over two hundred years ago. Even if they never found a way home, they'd be dead, now."

She says it matter-of-factly, but with a sadness she cannot entirely hide. The Master remembers that look. The Doctor rarely mentioned his mother, but the Master recognizes the pain inevitable between Time Lords and humans, inherent in that tremendous difference of lifespan.

"And," the Master begins slowly, "how was the Doctor, when you left him?"

Susan smiles. "Just like himself," she pronounces. "Isn't he always?"

It's far more of an answer than it sounds. "Yes," he grants, and almost smiles back. "I suppose he is."

"He misses you," she adds, gently. "He never said it, of course. But I could see."

"That's kind of you to say," the Master replies, not certain whether he believes her, but hoping with all his hearts. There is comfortable silence, for a little while, as the both of them stew in their abundance of thoughts. But there is one thing still left to be settled. "Susan," says the Master, "you're more than welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. It's wonderful, having you here. But I want you to have a choice. Do you still want to go back to Gallifrey?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and he thinks it's to her credit. She considers long and hard. "Yes," she says finally. "Please, Papa. I want to go to the Academy. I want to be a proper Time Lady."

"It won't be easy," he says gently. "Your classmates will be far ahead of you in some ways, and far behind in others. You're very much more mature than your peers. You've seen much more already than many of them will in their entire lives. But even if the Doctor has been teaching you, there will be things they all know that you've never been taught. And our society isn't generous when it comes to difference."

She nods. "I know that, Papa. I'm used to it. I've been different everywhere, all my life. Before we left Gallifrey, even—from the day I was born. But I can have something stable, now. I can have some peace."

"They won't be happy to see me," murmurs the Master to himself. "But they should at least let us land safely."

Susan stares at him. "What do you mean, Papa?"

"I'm as much a Renegade as your grandfather these days, I'm afraid," the Master admits. "And I had some...trouble, getting off-planet. I have no doubt the CIA will want to have one or two words with me." They'll want far more than words, he knows perfectly well. He doesn't care. His granddaughter's future is infinitely more important than whatever punishment they have in store.

"The CIA?" Susan asks, confused, and he's reminded just how young she was when she left. It's better not to tell her the truth. She'd feel guilty, he knows, for the part she's going to play in his now-inevitable capture. She'll understand what he's giving up for her, someday, but only after it's already too late.

"Never mind, Susan. All you have to know is that, once I've got you to the Academy, I probably won't be able to see you again. There's no reason you shouldn't be safe in the Citadel for the rest of your lives, and I'll see to it you don't have to worry about money." By law, the government can confiscate his assets for his crimes, but not until after his trial. The Master intends to immediately transfer everything to Susan. It should be more than enough to get her through school and start her off in the world. "If you ever are in danger, don't even stop to think before you call on me—I'll come. But otherwise, it'll be much better for you to distance yourself from me as far as you can." She tries to protest, but he presses on, "I love you dearly, little girl, but it's for your own good. If there's anything else you need...you probably don't remember your great-uncle Braxiatel, and if you do I suppose they aren't very nice memories. He's a prat, but he does care about the good of the family, and I haven't been saving my best blackmail material all these years for nothing. If you need anything and he won't help you by choice, tell him you know all about the Collection, and he'll snap to attention quick enough."

"The Collection," she repeats. "But Papa..."

"Good girl," he says. "I'll go set the coordinates." He smiles. "Pack anything you need or want. Raid the library, the wardrobe room, the galleries—whatever you like. It shouldn't be more than an hour or two."

During that hour, the Master carefully reviews the plans for his Device, and, equally carefully, destroys the prototype and all written materials. Anything that anyone else could possibly use is scrupulously purged. He does keep one copy of the plans as data on a chip, locked behind a thousand different kinds of protection, unbreakable and tamper-proof genetic locks. The chip is tiny, smaller than a grain of rice, and shouldn't be found on his person, if he's clever enough about hiding it. He slips it inside the upper ridge of his own ear, and seals it in place with a tiny patch of synthetic skin. It's only a last resort, in case they tamper with his memories. He's got every detail in his own head anyway.

The moment they land on Gallifrey, no fewer than a dozen CIA officers are waiting to seize him. "Don't be alarmed, Susan," he says calmly. Turning with an imperious sneer to the Time Lord holding his left arm, the Master informs him, "This Time Lady is Sausannagrokantaladungorkan of the most noble Houses Oakdown and Lungbarrow, Prydonian chapter. Scum such as you is unfitted to wipe her boots, but you are to be granted the unprecedented and undeserved honor of escorting her to the Prydonian Academy. If so much as a single cell of her person is in worse condition when she arrives, I will hunt you to the ends of the universe, and your death will be painful and slow. Is all of that perfectly clear?"

The man raises an eyebrow, and turns to another Time Lord in CIA robes. "Do as he says," the second man snaps. "It's as good a place for her as any."

"Papa..."

The Master looks down on his granddaughter and smiles. "Good-bye, Susan," he says, touching her cheek. "I hope you find everything you want from this life, my sweet girl."

And then they're dragging him away, and she's calling, "But Papa, what...," and he knows in his bones that he won't ever see her again.


	4. Chapter 4

The Master doesn't bother fighting the charges laid against him in the courts of the Time Lords. They're all true, after all. He _has_ stolen a TARDIS, shot a member of the Chancellery Guard, and engaged in any amount of unauthorized dashing about the universe. His sentence will go easier, he thinks, if he confesses and has done.

Afterwards, he's not entirely certain that his sentence could have gone worse.

They take back his TARDIS, of course. They force a regeneration out of this eighth body he's only just got to know, and into a ninth with sleek pale hair and a blond variation of the perpetual goatee. But then comes the most unkindest cut of all. He is to be exiled on a barren class-four planet, _without_ any method of transport. No TARDIS, no advanced technology to build another: only sheer barren nothingness. He is presented with an enormous gaudy monstrosity on a golden chain that will keep him synchronized with Gallifreyan time so long as he wears it. And then he is forced onto a prison TARDIS, and forced out again, stripped of everything in the world save the clothing he wears, completely and violently alone.

The Master looks around him, staring in the semi-gloom of this tiny world beside its fading star. The Master knows that someone, sometime, told him the name of this planet that will be his prison, but he doesn't think this hellhole deserves the benefit of a name, and tries to forget that fact. He's in the middle of some kind of city square, open to the sky above, that seems to be hewn into the living sandstone of a mountain or a cliff. He's ringed by a long, curving wall of stone, perhaps twenty feet high, pitted by windows and interrupted by doors that open into the square, and by a long passageway that seems to lead into the mountain. The whole town is the same uninterrupted shade of dusty tan, no color anywhere, and no sound, either, except the timid susurrus of a little fountain in the center of the square. If it weren't for that evidence of continued inhabitance, the Master would think he'd stumbled into the dead relict of a forgotten place. The sun is setting behind him, and its weak light isn't nearly enough to see by. The Master pulls a torch from his pocket—the CIA let him keep the contents of his own pockets, at least, and being dimensionally transcendental, they've left him not entirely helpless—and shines it in the direction of one of the windows in the wall of stone surrounding him.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

The door beside his torch beam slides cautiously open a bare few inches, and a head pokes out, a very strange head with no hair, dusky purple skin, and a very long neck. "The Bright One," the purple mouth breathes, in a whisper. And then, shouting loud enough for the entire town to hear, "The Bright One is come!" The purple-skinned creature, which proves to be a fairly basic humanoid beyond the twice-standard length neck, rushes out into the square, and flings itself into a kowtow at the Master's feet. Other doors open, other figures emerge, and suddenly the Master is surrounded by purple figures in various states of toadying genuflection. "Hail to the Bright One!" calls an unknown voice, and the cry is taken up. Then a hush falls over the square.

It's clearly the Master's turn to speak. At first, he's too gobsmacked to do any such thing. And then he throws back his head, and laughs long and hard.

"What the hell," says the Master. "If you're going to be trapped on a worthless rock in the middle of nowhere, may as well be a god-king, that's what I always say. Villagers, I am your Bright One! I bring light and prosperity!"

There is a general cheer, and the Master revises his assessment of his situation. He has no doubt his temporary-as-possible stay on this Rassilon-forsaken planet will still be stultifying, but it may at least not be _quite_ as abominable as he had feared.

*

The Master is Bright One of the Skossos for a full century. By the end of that time, he's developed his backwards, peace-loving tribe into the conquerors of their planet, and advanced their technology to approximately the level of mid-twentieth-century Earth. He's only months away from perfecting aviation technology on this backwater sufficiently to permit some basic form of space flight, enough to get him off this useless world, when the War Lords arrive. And, War Lords being War Lords, the first thing they do is slaughter every living thing on the planet with a massive burst of radiation.

As soon as he's past his regeneration—into a body that will prove, when the Master makes it to a mirror some time later, to be dark-haired and pale-skinned and sharp-eyed with frankly _shocking_ facial hair—the Master finds himself staring into the first non-violet face he's seen in a hundred years.

"You," says the man softly, in a formal, oddly accented, almost stunted tone, "are a Time Lord."

There's no use denying it, not when he's just regenerated. "That's right."

"What are you doing here?"

"Ruling this world, until about an hour ago. What are _you_ doing here?"

"This planet," the unknown alien presses on, ignoring the question, "cannot present much appeal to one of a race so advanced as your own."

"No," the Master admits. "But I fail to see what appeal it presents to a race so advanced as _yours_ , either."

"I am the War Lord," says the War Lord. "My people wish to use this planet as a training ground for our armies."

"And I am the Master," says the Master. "You needn't have slaughtered my primitives, you know. They drove me crazy most of the time, but they _did_ worship me. And as pets went, they were at least housebroken."

"It would cause us great displeasure to know that we had offended the Time Lords, Master."

"The Time Lords as a body couldn't care less, I assure you. I was exiled on this planet," he admits. "As a matter of fact, War Lord, your arrival was a highly fortuitous circumstance for me, even if it did cost me a regeneration. I don't suppose I can impose upon you for a ride to the nearest spaceport?"

"I am afraid that none of my people will be leaving this planet for some time, and you will understand that it is impossible for us to lend one of our ships to a stranger; they could not be flown single-handed, in any case. But we shall be very pleased to have you as an honored guest. Our war games will be very well worth observing, I assure you."

That's not nearly good enough. Being kept as a pet Time Lord is no more satisfactory than being kept as the god to a tribe of primitives. He doesn't want to be pampered and coddled and shown off as a curiosity. But if he's more than just a guest, if they consider him an ally and a friend, perhaps he can get his hands on a ship—and, once he's done that, can fly himself to Gallifrey to steal a proper TARDIS.

"I could hardly abuse your hospitality in such a way, War Lord. I am a scientist and an engineer. I have a very great respect for the technology of your people. Perhaps we could work together? I am certain that we could learn much from each other."

The War Lord's face displays no emotion, any more than it has at any point during the conversation. But his voice betrays the tiniest hint of eagerness as he says, "The knowledge of your people is a precious commodity indeed. I comprehend that the secrets of the Vortex are the particular purview of your race; I would not be so uncouth as to ask you to divulge them. But my people have been working to develop a limited form of interstitial time travel—capsules that can travel between a fixed set of points and times by slipping between the cracks of reality, bypassing the Vortex altogether. Simply to hear your opinions on the project would be invaluable."

The Master hesitates, but only for a moment. The War Lord is right—he'd never betray the secrets of Vortex travel, even if the Time Lords _have_ stranded him on this rock. But the Master would very much like to get a look at these interstitial time capsules. He'd like it very much indeed. He has no doubt that there's plenty he can tell them without letting them in on the sorts of technical secrets that maintain the Time Lords' iron control over time travel. And while the Master doesn't doubt that he can find some way to wriggle through Gallifrey's shields in a space vehicle that doesn't travel through time, it'll be much easier if he's got fourth-dimensional control.

"It sounds, sir," says the Master, shaking the War Lord's hand, "as though you and I are going to be friends."

*

It's the War Lord who proposes that the Master adopt a new name during his allegiance with the War Lords. The Master doesn't object. He doesn't do it to make the other War Lords more comfortable with him—they'll always see him as an outsider, and he doesn't give a damn whether they're comfortable or not. But it'll be useful, just in case, to keep his identity under wraps. It's likely the CIA will check up on him from time to time, and he can't imagine they'd consider an alliance with such a violent race and their plans for universal domination to be maintaining a proper level of non-involvement. He doesn't make any secret of his Time Lord heritage, and vows he'll never forget who he is. But War Chief is a rather nice name to be getting on with, anyhow.

The War Lords' plan, the Master learns, is to kidnap human troops and set them fighting against each other all over the surface of this planet, until only the strongest survive. This super-race is to be bred up to fighting strength, and then used as front-line troops in an assault on this entire galaxy. The Master doesn't consider the war games to be nearly such good watching as the War Lord might have supposed. He's seen a fair bit of violence in his life so far, and been on the receiving end of it more than once. When this was his planet, the takeover wasn't bloodless, and the Master has even led troops in his time. But those were minor skirmishes, and his tribe, armed with the guns he designed for them, had more often managed to intimidate their spear-wielding neighbors into surrender than they'd actually had to fight. The battles the Master witnesses now aren't anything like that. He knows that they're only small snapshots of much larger battles, real ones, on Earth, but that only makes everything more horrific.

The Master can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of that. He learns not to think of such things, to distance himself however he can, developing a haughty manner and a predilection for gloves, anything to keep himself one step away from that carnage. _He'll_ never be called-upon to do anything like that, thank Rassilon. The Time Lords do not fight wars. Watching these humans kill each other, as viciously and thoughtlessly as they can manage, reinforces more and more strongly as time goes on the fact that these are _aliens_. They aren't like the Master. Humans are another thing, different, lesser. Their deaths don't matter in the same way as Time Lord deaths. The Master tells himself this because he has to, if he's going to get by. And soon he learns to believe it, on the days when he doesn't remember that the Doctor is part-human himself.

The Master tries not to think about the Doctor. It doesn't help. Knowing that the Doctor is out there somewhere, free, roaming the universe, while the Master is trapped here for the crime of caring for their granddaughter better than the Doctor did—it doesn't help. It doesn't help, feeling how empty his bed is at nights, even though it's been longer without the Doctor than they ever had together. He hasn't so much as _seen_ the Doctor in more years than they ever knew each other. And still, when the Master dreams, he only ever dreams of one face.

The Master channels that energy, instead, into engineering work of many kinds. He designs the eyepieces that give the War Lords hypnotic control over their troops; he's good at hypnosis, it turns out. He fiddles their crude time capsules in little ways that seem significant to the uninformed, except for one very special model which he plans to use himself. And he begins rebuilding his Device. He can't run proper tests, not without a real TARDIS, but he does manage to reconstruct a prototype to hold in reserve for the proper time. And his existence develops a rhythm, a sameness. He's nearly a half-century with the War Lords, and by the end of that time it feels almost as though he is one of them. By the end of that time, he is beginning to forget that this isn't where he belongs.

*

'Life is what happens when you're least expecting it,' the Master reflects gloomily, sounds like a lyric from an abysmal popular song, or a trite aphorism from some violently glossy coffee-table book for the dim and the dull.

Nevertheless.

*

He's never seen that face before, the one that appears before him one Thursday with no warning whatever. He's never seen those raggedy, mismatched clothes, or the heavy but genial features, or the hair which even a man with the War Chief's sideburns feels justified in calling odd, and none of them are anything like the man he remembers. But there isn't the slightest, remotest, most infinitesimal chance that he might not know who he's looking at.

To say that the Master is conflicted as to his own reaction is an understatement on the level of 'The Time Lords may not be the _most_ fashion-forward species in the universe.' He wants to kiss his Doctor, very, very badly. He wants to hit him, very, very hard. He wants to tell him every single thing he's done, seen, heard, said, touched, smelled and tasted in the past three hundred and fifty-odd years. He wants to cut him dead, and never speak a single word to him again. He wants to plead for forgiveness. He wants to demand apologies. He wants to burst into tears, and beg the Doctor to come back to him. He wants to appear completely uninterested, if the Doctor seems to be pretending so, too. But until the Master can decide between those options, the one thing he's absolutely sure of is that he wants to get his hands on the Doctor, chain him down in one place, and not let the man out of his sight for a minimum of sixteen millennia.

Naturally, then, the first thing the Doctor does after recognizing the Master is turns tail and runs.

*

It's the last straw. Bad enough the Doctor ran from their home and their marriage; bad enough the mess he left the Master to clean up with Susan. But refusing to even breathe the same _air_ is too much. The War Chief sets the entire War Lord base on full alert, and when they finally track the Doctor down, he shows no mercy. The Doctor is hiding in one of the SIDRAT units the Master helped to design and implement, and the Master practically means it, when he threatens to crush him to death by shrinking the machine's internal dimensions. When the Doctor does come out, face to face with him again, it's that same rush: love and loathing, desire and disgust. He wants the Doctor so badly, but that doesn't mean he's happy to see him. Not for any value of 'happy' the Master understands.

It's only moments before the Doctor flings down his smoke-bomb and makes his escape—a more complete escape than the Master would ever have expected, as the Doctor also manages to snatch the controls for the SIDRAT in the confusion. It's a frankly brilliant move. It's undeniably, indisputably brilliant.

"What an ingenious fellow he is," says the War Chief, keeping his face resolutely turned towards the control panel so no one can see the wildly stricken expression on his face.

*

The War Chief has never got on well with most of his War Lord compatriots, but the Security Chief is becoming an actual problem. He's always been a problem, really, but now he's becoming positively insufferable, and the Master hasn't got the time or the emotional energy to deal with his petty suspicions right now. Not when the Doctor is finally sitting in front of him, captive, _trapped_. The War Chief pulls rank on the obnoxious imbecile, and then the Doctor is his alone, to do with as he likes. Just like it should always have been. Just like it should always be.

"You and I are going to talk, alone," he tells the Doctor, the first real words they've spoken to each other since that horrible night, so many, many years ago.

"I have nothing to say to you." And that was one of the very last things the Doctor said, when last they spoke. The Master remembers it all. He remembers it so very, very well. The Doctor is mumbling into his jacket, as though he can't stand the thought of saying even so much. As though even _looking_ at the Master were beneath him.

"We shall see. Guards!"

And soon they _are_ alone, just the two of them. The Master's hearts are hammering so hard he can't imagine how they remain safe in his chest. The Doctor is standing behind him, but, no matter how much the Master wants to look, he remains staring firmly the other way.

"You may have changed your appearance," says the Master, as soon as he thinks he may be able to keep a level tone, "but I know who you are." He doesn't only mean that he knows the Doctor's identity; of course he doesn't. He'll always know who the Doctor _really_ is, all the way down, no matter how much time they spend apart.

"Oh, do you?"

That would-be casual tone is maddening. Does the Doctor really want to pretend that they're mere acquaintances—or possibly even less than that? The Master refuses to be outdone. "Your machine is a TARDIS. You're too familiar with its controls to be a stranger."

"I had every right to leave." Clearly, the Doctor doesn't like the Master's imitation lack of recognition any more than the Master likes the Doctor's. It's a _real_ statement, spoken as his _real_ self, and, no matter how much the Master may dislike the content, that irritation in the Doctor's voice sends a stab of hope through the Master's hearts.

"No, Doctor, you did _not_ ," he says, quiet, deadly. "And I don't only mean where I myself am concerned. I know for a fact that the CIA are quite eager for a word with you. Stealing a TARDIS...oh, I'm not criticizing you. We are two of a kind."

"We most certainly are not." There is no warmth at all in the Doctor's voice, and he doesn't meet the Master's eye.

"We were both Time Lords. We both decided to leave our race."

"I had reasons of my own."

"Just as I had."

"Your reasons are only too obvious: power." The Doctor spits that last word, just as he did in their last conversation, the same tone in a different voice.

The Master cannot deny, he does enjoy the power of his position here. If the War Lords do succeed in conquering this galaxy, the Master will be very well situated—just in the proper position to launch a coup, and make that empire his. Can the Doctor resist him, if he's prepared to present him with a galaxy all his own? How much of the universe is sufficient payment for the Master's sins?

The Master steps nearer, leaning over the Doctor's shoulder. "How much have you learnt of our plans?"

"I know that you've been kidnapping soldiers from the Earth from various times in its history and bringing them here to kill each other."

"But do you realize our ultimate objectives?" The Master's voice is sharper than he intends. There's too much riding on this conversation, and he has no interest in talking about the humans. He wants to talk about _them_. He wants to talk about their future as co-rulers of this corner of spacetime.

"No objectives can justify such _slaughter_ ," the Doctor snaps. He almost looks at the Master, then, pulling himself back at the last moment. They're standing so close. It's been so long, and the Master is having such a hard time not touching him. He has to turn and walk away, just to stifle the urge, and takes the chance to position himself where the Doctor cannot help but meet his eye.

"The war games on this planet are simply the means to an end. The aliens intend to conquer the entire galaxy—a thousand inhabited worlds."

"But why choose the people of the Earth?"

"They are the most suitable recruits for our armies. Man is the most vicious species of all." The Master means the words to cut. 'Only a Time Lord with a strain of human in his blood could do such a cruel thing as you did, leaving me that way,' he tries to imply, but the Doctor doesn't seem to take the hint.

"Well, that simply isn't true!"

"Consider their history. For a half a million years they have been systematically killing each other. Now we can turn that savagery to some purpose." It'll be no help to the Master to talk about the hows. He'd rather talk about the whys. "We can bring peace to the galaxy. And you can help."

The Doctor doesn't say no, and the Master smiles at that implied surrender. "You see? I'm not the cold-hearted villain you suppose me to be." He lets his tone go soft, seductive. "My motives are purely peaceful."

The Doctor doesn't melt. "It's your methods, not your motives, that concern me most," he says.

"Oh, I assure you, our methods are sound." The Master can make a success of this, he's absolutely certain. And he wants the Doctor to see. "We have soldiers from most of the major wars on the planet Earth: the First World War, the war between Russia and Japan of 1905, the Thirty Years War..."

"But why make them kill each other?"

"How else can we find the most disciplined and courageous fighters?"

The Doctor's anger comes suddenly, sharp as a hammer blow. "You have given these aliens our science and our knowledge to carry out this _disgusting_ plan!"

The Master has no intention of apologizing. He's only done what was necessary to survive—in a situation he'd never have been trapped in at all, if not for the Doctor's own poor grandparenting. "We are going to bring a new order to the galaxy. One united galactic empire."

"An empire of _slaves_ ," the Doctor is practically spitting with ire, "with you as one of its rulers."

Of _course_ he'll be one of its rulers. Why shouldn't he be? He's a Time Lord—and so is the Doctor. They were made to rule. They are naturally superior. He and the Doctor are even superior to the rest of their race. They've always been special. The universe is _meant_ to be theirs. How can the Doctor take that tone? How can he fail to see the truth?

"Doctor, this is also a matter of your own survival." Just saying those words makes the Master giddy with power. The Master wouldn't ever let the Doctor come to harm, not while there was breath in his body, no matter _how_ angry with him he might be. But just the _idea_ of holding dominion over the Doctor's very existence is so heady he can hardly breathe. "Unless I can convince the War Lord that you will help us..."

And then the War Lord and the Security Chief are interrupting, stealing the Master and the Doctor's solitude before they can even begin to come to the point. The Security Chief proves himself once more not only an annoyance, but a threat to the Doctor, and once the Master is done saving the Doctor's life he swears to himself that the Security Chief _will_ die for that threat. The Master keeps his eyes on the Doctor all the while, but the Doctor's face reflects no gratitude as the the Master risks his own neck for his runaway husband—only the disgust that has grown more and more ingrained into his features all this while. Only once does the Doctor's expression flicker: when he hears that the Master's life is conditional on his own good behavior. That hint of emotion, tiny though it is, is enough for the Master to live on. It's more than he's had in a very, very long time.

"I never promised to help you," the Doctor hisses, as soon as they are left alone again.

"But you will. You have no alternative," the Master replies.

"Help people like _that_ to conquer the galaxy?"

"Not people like that. People like _us_." This is the moment when the Doctor will see the error of his ways, realize what he's given up in leaving the Master, change his mind and come back to the Master's side, where he belongs. "I intend to take over as supreme galactic ruler. You can help me to rule." The Master already learned, in his days as king of this little planet, that even dominion is no fun alone. He needs a consort. He'll win back the Doctor, and they'll rule this galaxy together. And with that kind of power, there will be no one and nothing that can stand in the way of the Master and his Device. The Doctor will forgive him, and they'll finish it together, and build their paradox, and have their daughter back again. The Master knows he can do it, if he's got the Doctor by his side. "If you will co-operate."

"Co-operate," says the Doctor, softly. "Is that the word you've been looking for, then." He fiddles with one of the figures on the map table in front of them, fidgeting. "I have no desire to rule anything. You already know that. You can keep your galaxy, Master. I don't want it."

The sound of the Doctor saying his name is more perfect than he can even comprehend. It hits him like a shock, shorting out his good sense entirely. He knows he should be addressing the question of galaxies, but he can't, not right now. It's just too much. "Say it again, Doctor," he breathes.

The Doctor looks up in surprise. "What?"

"My name." The man who has been the War Chief for far too long now wraps his hand around the Doctor's wrist. "Say my name again, Doctor."

Something else happens in the Doctor's face then, a different kind of wariness, spreading slowly across his features. "Master, I..."

And there it is again: that electric thrill, so much better than anything the Master has felt since before the world went wrong, before Rose's death. The Master doesn't stop to think what a foolish thing it is to do. He just leans forward, close as they are, and kisses the Doctor with all the pent-up emotion of nearly three-and-a-half centuries apart.

For the first three point seven seconds, precisely, the Doctor remains still. And then he leaps backwards, wrenching his hand and his mouth away from the Master's. He's breathing hard, and his cheeks are flushed. "Don't," he says, his voice harsh.

"Why shouldn't I?" The Master takes a step forwards, bringing them near again. "I've missed you so much, Doctor," he admits. "It was fate that brought you here, now, at this moment. This coming victory would be hollow and cold without you. But with you by my side..."

The Master is cut-off in mid-sentence when the door swings open, and the Security Chief proceeds to lower himself still further in the Master's estimation by this latest interruption. There is some kind of rebellion on, it seems. The Doctor is canny enough to save his own life, betraying his captured human allies to ensure his own survival, and the Master, while applauding the choice, wonders how the Doctor can be hypocrite enough to criticize the Master's ethics. Then the prisoners are removed, and they are alone again.

"Don't worry, Doctor," the Master reassures. "The War Lord will welcome your loyalty and assistance."

"I hope so," says the Doctor, humbly, "but, you know, I find it hard to understand why _you_ need me."

The Master smiles. _This_ is more like it. He knows a cue when he hears it. " _We_ need each other," he purrs, sidling a bit nearer.

"It's something to do with the TARDIS travel machines, isn't it?"

Of course it's nothing to do with any kind of TARDIS—real, or the imitations the Master has helped design for the War Lords. How could it be? What is the Doctor trying to tell him? Is this his way of saying that the Master is moving too fast? Yes—that must be it. That kiss had been too much, too soon, and the Doctor isn't certain of the Master's intentions. The Master _was_ trapped on this planet, true, and he still doesn't have a real TARDIS of his own. He can see how the Doctor might worry. After all this time, he might doubt the fidelity of the Master's emotions, fear that the Master is simply playing on the Doctor's own feelings as a way of making his escape. It's not very generous of the Doctor to think such a thing of him, but the Master can forgive him that. He'll prove to the Doctor that his intentions are pure.

The Master tries to steer the Doctor away from this new topic of conversation, but the Doctor keeps going on about the SIDRATs. He forces the Master to admit the temporary nature of these inferior capsules, refusing to be deterred or deflected.

"Now I understand. It's my TARDIS you're after, isn't it?" the Doctor proclaims.

Oh, for Rassilon's sake. Why is the Doctor forcing him to play this game? "Exactly," the Master answers, hardly able to stop his eyes from rolling at the untruth the Doctor so obviously needs to hear. It shuts the Doctor up about TARDISes long enough for the Master to get the conversation back on track. "When we are in control, the machines I have brought with me," (no sense in letting the Doctor learn the true nature of his introduction into this project just yet), "will have expired. If we hold the only space-time travel machine," he slips his arm around the Doctor's shoulder, emphasizing the intimacy of that dual ownership, reminding the Doctor that the very TARDIS he's speaking of was in fact jointly theirs to begin with, "we can rule our galaxy without fear of opposition."

"Yes, but without me and my TARDIS, your ambitions are going to be rather hard to realize, aren't they?" The Doctor doesn't pull away from the Master's arm, even as he begins to walk across the room.

"That's right," the Master admits. "And without my influence, these aliens will surely kill you. As I said, Doctor, we need each other."

"Master," says the Doctor, "you know, don't you, that I didn't come here looking for you?"

The Master raises his eyebrows at the change of subject, and fights hard against the urge to react to that name. "You did seem surprised to see me, Doctor."

"As a matter of fact, you were the last person I expected to find. And if I had known you were here, I would most assuredly have run as fast as I could in the opposite direction."

That stops the Master in his tracks. His arm still around the Doctor, he turns to look him in the eye. The Doctor's expression is unyielding, but it softens just a bit as he goes on.

"You wouldn't let me _die_ , Master," says the Doctor. "Whether I collaborate with you or not, you have no intention of allowing them to harm me. And I have no intention of collaborating. These so-called 'games' are an abomination. I _will_ not ally myself with the monsters who superintend them."

"You don't have to, Doctor!" Why has he _never_ been able to make the Doctor understand? "They will be deposed just the moment they achieve their goals! The only one you'll truly be allying yourself with is me."

"And I don't want that, either," says the Doctor, gently. "Did I fail to make myself clear when last we met, Master? Our...co-operation is ended." He lifts the Master's hand from his shoulder, gently but firmly. "I have no desire to hurt you. But I have no desire to have anything else to do with you, either. It's best if we go our separate ways—best for both of us."

Of all the ways the Master has died so far, he's never been stabbed. He imagines it's something like this. "How can you persist in this foolishness, Doctor?" the Master asks, genuinely confused. "We _belong_ together. We belong _to_ each other. Forever is what you promised me, Doctor. I haven't released you from that pledge."

The Doctor's face is no longer red, but pale. "Then I am forced to release myself. I want nothing more to do with you, Master, or your schemes for power. I meant it when I said that I never wanted to see you again."

The Master steps back, his own face going just as white as the Doctor's. "You'll change your mind, someday," he says, shakily. "If you've changed it once, I can change it back again. I will not permit you to deny the truth, Doctor. I will not permit you to run from me, not any longer."

"You haven't any choice," says the Doctor, heartlessly. "I have a TARDIS. And you, by your own admission, have not. When I run, how precisely do you propose to catch me?"

Before the Master can begin to formulate an answer, the Doctor has brushed past him, into the control room where the War Lords have gathered, leaving the Master gaping, racing-hearted, wide-eyed, and somehow, suddenly, even more alone than he has been for the past three hundred years.

*

The Doctor is right. The Master doesn't let the War Lords kill him. And when the Security Chief sends the Doctor off to be murdered by the humans he has betrayed, the Master doesn't let them kill him, either.

Clearly, the Doctor understands the Master even better than he does himself.

As it turns out, however, the Doctor has a chance to return the favor. That slippery little weasel, the Security Chief, had the Master's conversations with the Doctor recorded. The Master's intended treachery is known. Only the Doctor and his humans—who he never intended to betray, after all—save the Master from the War Lords' vengeance, and only the Doctor saves the Master from the humans' violent instincts. It seems that the human rebellion is a much stronger force than the Master had realized. The War Lords are about to be toppled by their own human slaves. The Master isn't entirely sure what this is going to mean for him, in the long term, but as the War Lords are his enemies now he supposes it's probably a good thing. He'll ally himself with the Doctor and the humans for as long as he needs them, and aim to make his way across central headquarters to his own specially modified SIDRAT in the landing bay. The Master doesn't trust the machine, isn't remotely certain it'll succeed in getting him to Gallifrey, but he hasn't got any other choice.

First, though, he has to earn the humans' confidence, or they'll never let him go, no matter what the Doctor says. He helps them take the war room, gaining full control over the War Lords' base. And that gives him an opportunity to fulfill a promise he made to himself.

The Master has never killed for pleasure before. He's killed because he had to, in self-defense or in battle. But when he shoots the Security Chief, it's for pure hatred of the man, and because he dared put the Doctor in danger. And the Master likes the feeling of that kill. He likes it far more than he'd ever have thought he could.

Once they've got control of the war room, the Master sees no reason to stay. The conquest of the galaxy is no longer viable, with the human troops in revolt, and the War Lords can't stop them now. The time to make an escape is now, before War Lord reinforcements arrive from their homeworld.

"You realize we have very little time now the alarm has been sounded," he tells the Doctor.

"Yes. Call off the fighting at once."

This is no time to worry about those humans out in their trenches. The important thing is that _they_ get away, the Master and the Doctor. The Master will even stretch the point to include the boy and girl who seem to have arrived with the Doctor—he must have got used to keeping humans aboard his TARDIS since those two Susan mentioned to the Master, Barbara and Ian. But what matter are the thousands of anonymous soldiers on this planet?

"We could just go to the landing bay, order a machine and leave."

"You could," says the Doctor, wearily, half sighing. "We can't. The fighting has to be stopped, and everyone sent back to their own times."

"Sent back how?"

"By your TARDIS travel machines, of course!"

The Master has no idea why the Doctor can't just say 'SIDRAT' if he wants to differentiate between the War Lords' capsules and proper TARDISes, but there's no time for petty squabbles at present. "I'm afraid that will not be possible. There are only two machines left with enough life in them."

"What!" From the look on his face, this development has thrown a significant wrench in the Doctor's plans. "My word, but that's happened rather sooner than I expected!"

"Doctor," pipes up one of the human resistance leaders who have been listening in, "does that mean you can't do as you promised and get us all home?"

Why would the Doctor promise such a thing? The Master supposes it must have been a matter of practicality, a bargain; the Doctor must have needed the humans' help somehow. But he doesn't need them now, and he can't actually _care_. Not for _humans_.

"Well," the Doctor is obviously thinking hard, and somehow, even after all this time, the Master knows what he's thinking of, "yes, I..I can still do that..."

"You can't!" the Master interjects, horrified. "You can't, unless...Doctor, you mustn't call them in, or it will be the end of us." The Doctor doesn't understand the Time Lords. He doesn't understand just how harsh their justice truly is. The Master is glad of that; he wouldn't wish the kind of punishments he's suffered on anyone, much less the Doctor. The idea of bringing down the wrath of their species, actually calling them in _on purpose_ for the sake of a few primitive humans who don't matter one whit to anybody—it's sheer madness. He hears his own voice begin to wobble as he tries to explain: "They'll show no mercy..."

"You stop the fighting!" the Doctor snaps, shouting. He clearly does have _some_ notion what kind of fire he's playing with; he'd not be so on edge, otherwise. But he cannot possibly understand fully.

When the Master remains still, staring at the Doctor, begging him with his eyes to see sense, the human resistance leader stalks over and brandishes his gun in the Master's face. "Do as you're told!"

The Master doesn't care the slightest bit whether the humans on this planet go on killing each other or not. He gives the orders to stop the fighting, busy all the time with worrying that the Doctor may actually be so horrifically idiotic as to call their own people into this. Selective temporal meddling means the CIA, and the CIA means a group of Time Lords and Ladies predisposed to think the worst of the Master, and with the power to punish him in any of a thousand gruesome ways. The thought occurs to him that, as he's managed to get himself into trouble on a planet they thought guaranteed to keep him docile, they might send him somewhere even _worse_ next time—a planet with no sentient life at all, perhaps, or the very worst of mindless, babbling, violent savages.

"Don't do it, Doctor, you _can't_!" the Master begs, as the Doctor begins to assemble the psychic vessel that will transmit his distress call to the Time Lords. "You know what will happen!"

It's no use. The Doctor won't listen. How can the Master save him from this, if he won't listen? There's nothing for it—the Master will have to run. He'll have to make his escape alone. If the Master is free, he can rescue the Doctor afterwards from whatever gruesome punishment the Time Lords dream up. The humans are distracted, watching the Doctor, and the Master spares only one more long look before beginning to sidle towards the door. He hates that it has to be this way, but far better to have one of them free. The Master would gladly be the one to face regeneration, imprisonment or worse for the Doctor's sake, but if the Doctor won't see reason, it'll have to be the Master instead.

The Master runs straight for the landing bay, where his modified SIDRAT is waiting. He's about to enter the capsule when he finds himself face to face with the War Lord. The Master can tell from the War Lord's face, no matter how little he lets his emotions show, that the Master himself is done for. His intended treachery is known, must be known. The Master is in very deep trouble.

The Master tries to bluff his way out, but only succeeds in confirming his own suspicions: the War Lord does indeed know everything, from a message the Security Chief left before the Master shot him. The War Lord has his own personal bodyguard with him, four armed guards, and the Master has no gun at all. He backs his way towards the exit, bluffing hard all the way, telling any lie about the Security Chief he can possibly think to spin.

"He was an incompetent fool, jealous of my position—surely you realize that." The guards' weapons follow him all the time, but every moment he gets nearer the door, further from those guns. "He forged that recording you heard," he tries, desperately, and then makes a break for the door, running for his life.

As it turns out, that isn't good enough.

*

The guards' guns are enough to kill the Master—but not instantly. The Master engages his respiratory bypass system the moment the first shot hits, playing dead for all he's worth. He feels the urge to regenerate tugging at him, his body informing him that it is damaged too badly to heal. But he throws all his strength into resisting it. He holds captive the artron energy straining to transform him while the War Lord and his guards plan their escape, and while that escape is foiled by the Doctor and his humans. He waits as the Doctor summons the Time Lords and attempts to run from them. The Master knows the Doctor won't get away, any more than the Master would himself, if he were in any condition to run. But if he can just play possum long enough, maybe he can even fool the CIA when they...

"I'm afraid that act won't work on us, Master," says a dry voice that jogs a memory in the back of the Master's brain. "For Rassilon's sake, regenerate and have done with it. It's painful just _looking_ at you like that."

The Master gives in, finally allowing himself to breathe, finally allowing his artron to flow. There is no other feeling quite like regeneration, nothing more disorienting or terrible or, in many ways, wonderful. The Master thinks he's rather taller this time, but it's always hard to tell just by the feel of skin around muscle and bone.

"Now, stand up. You've done enough to embarrass our species in front of these aliens as it is."

"I know you," mutters the Master as he's standing. "Why do I..."

He finally gets a look at the Time Lord who's been speaking, one of a crowd in CIA robes who are busying themselves dealing with the humans and War Lords left behind. "Narvin?" the Master asks. "Little weasel-face Narvin, three forms below me at school? Well, who knew. To think, all those years I got stuck tutoring you in basic temporal mechanics..."

"That's quite enough of that," snaps Narvin.

"You were bollocks," grins the Master. "Oh, it hardly counts being arrested by _you_ , Narvin. Do you expect me to be scared? I just want to pinch your cheeks and quiz you on the symptoms of chronic hysteresis. You can't tell me you're really working for the CIA? How did you even manage to pass your exams?"

"Quite well, as a matter of fact, no thanks to your tutoring. Half the time you didn't even show up, and I'd have to find you and drag you away from Theta Sigma." Narvin smiles a sly little smile. "You did turn out two of a kind, didn't you? Renegades both. You needn't worry about the Doctor, by the way. We've got plans for him, too."

The Master glares daggers. He can tell it's a good glare, even with no idea of what his face looks like. "Don't you say another word to me about the Doctor. Not one word."

"Sensitive subject?" Narvin taunts. "Is someone a little techy because his husband ran off and..."

The Master rushes at Narvin, but another pair of CIA agents catch him by the arms. A gruff, older voice cautions, "You will cease to antagonize the prisoner, Agent Narvin. Continue to behave in such an undignified fashion, and you will never advance within this organization."

"Yes, sir." Narvin's spine straightens immediately.

"I comprehend that you are young, but that is no excuse for..."

As the older agent drones on and on, the Master manages to slip a hand into his pocket and does a bit of very careful rummaging. There's nothing on his person that can permit him to escape from such a gaggle of assorted CIA personnel. But he has taken one very important precaution against the eventuality of recapture. The Master presses a button in his right-hand pocket, and the entire war complex shakes as a room on the opposite side, what used to be the Master's quarters, goes up in flames. The Master sometimes feels as though he spends his whole life doing nothing but destroying prototypes of his Device—accidentally or intentionally—but that's still better than letting the CIA get their grubby paws on it, especially given the Master's advances in recent years. He _is_ making progress, slowly but surely. He _will_ have his paradox someday, and then this embarrassing scene will never have taken place at all. And so he is calm as the CIA agents force his hands from his pockets, calm as they bark questions and orders, calm as they shepherd him roughly into a TARDIS. He will take whatever punishment they give him, calmly, because they cannot truly touch him. He is the Master, and someday his Device will make him the Master of Time.

Whatever his faults, the Master has learned how to wait.

*

The charges brought against him this time are 'temporal interference,' 'conduct unbecoming a Time Lord,' and, for his destruction of the Device upon his capture, 'failure to cooperate with a government investigation.' Technically speaking, his offenses this time around are lighter than last, but he's a repeat offender now. They are, at least, generous enough not to force another life out of him, but only because they seem to count his regeneration during his first moments in their custody as something of their own doing. The Master has to strain his brains just to keep track, but realizes that this body he's in is already his eleventh. He's only five hundred and eighty-five! How can he possibly be in his eleventh body _already_? He'll have to be more careful from now on. If he'd taken half as many precautions to protect his person as he has to protect the plans for his Device, he'd not have died nearly so many times. Yes, finishing his Device and building his paradox are more important than the Master's own life, and he ought to be willing to take risks to achieve those goals. But he can't rescue his daughter, or win back his Doctor, if he's dead.

As always, the Time Lords seem to believe that regeneration is only the beginning of any good punishment. This time, they resort to what they consider extreme measures. The prison colony at Shada has seen only one inmate for centuries. In many ways, the Master considers imprisonment there to be preferable to his last exile. True, he'll be guarded, now, against the possibility of escape into the wider universe. But he will at least be among other Time Lords, and anyway, he's always wanted to meet the great and terrible Salyavin. The most infamous criminal of their race was a hero of his and the Doctor's when they were boys, for his brilliant and unconventional mind. In retrospect, it may not be altogether surprising that they have both of them ended up as Renegades.

*

The Master's first glimpse of Shada is very far from reassuring. The best word the Master can think of for this dismal grey planetoid is 'ghastly,' but that comes very far from capturing the full horror of the thing. Still, that was more or less what he expected. Salyavin, on the other hand, defies all the Master's expectations.

There being only two prisoners on this rock, they are given almost complete run of the place. There is only a small detachment of staff on-hand, a dozen thoroughly bored and thoroughly junior members of the Chancellery Guard who drew the short straw when it came to duties. The Master isn't shown to a cell so much as he is to a set of rooms, and realizes immediately that the interior of this place is very different from its grim exterior aspect. The Master's cell is dimensionally transcendental, as much space as he could possibly need, and, like the interior of a TARDIS, programmable to suit the inhabitant's tastes. At nights, the Master is told, he will be locked inside his suite, but during the day the door is left open to a large living space, high-ceilinged and marble-trimmed, full of comfortable plush seating and shelves of books, and lined with doors to the other cells. On the far wall stands the large, imposing, heavily reinforced metal portal that separates prisoners from jailers. Two guards lounge around the inner side of this at all times, but apart from that the Master thinks he might easily be in a posh hotel on the sort of pleasure world that caters to those with more sedate tastes. There are even windows along the walls that look out in real time on a genuine Gallifreyan vista, imported through time and space to grant the prisoners a glimpse of home.

Once the Master has settled himself in and redesigned his own quarters, he wanders out into the common area to have a look around. He doesn't even try to engage the guards in discussion; he'd not expect even remotely adequate conversation from a batch of lower-class guardlings so fresh from training the polish hasn't dried on their boots, and anyway, he's quite certain they'll be under orders not to speak to the prisoner. It's Salyavin he's hoping to meet, but the man doesn't seem inclined to oblige him by emerging. For the first time since well before his capture, the Master has a moment to think, and, inevitable as cloud preceding rain, his mind turns to the Doctor.

The Master isn't really certain whether he ever expected to meet his Doctor again. When he finishes his Device, and builds his paradox, he'll turn back time to the moment before Rose's death, and then—then the Master had expected to see the Doctor, a younger one, one who still loved the Master's own younger self. But discounting that other Doctor, the Master doesn't know if he thought he'd ever see the Doctor from his own timeline again. There are so many things he wonders. He wonders what this new regeneration of the Doctor is like, when he isn't fighting for his life. He wonders what he's been doing for three hundred years. He wonders how the Doctor met the boy and the girl who were traveling with him—Jamie and Zoe, the Master remembers—and why he took them with him, and whether they're meant as substitutes for the family the Doctor left behind, and how the Master feels about that. He wonders if the Doctor ever misses him. He wonders whether the Doctor is thinking about him, right this very moment.

Clearly, the Master will be needing some other way to fill his time than wondering.

Levering himself from his chair, the Master heads across to Salyavin's door, and knocks. "Yes, yes, of course, of course," calls a voice from inside. The Master stands patiently, expecting the man inside to come open the door, but after a moment the voice continues, "It turns to the left, you know," and the Master, taking that as permission, turns the handle and steps inside.

The Great Criminal's 'cell' is a cylindrical room, only about twenty feet across but perhaps five stories high, with domed, glass ceiling. Every bit of wall, including the back of the door, is honeycombed with built-in bookcases, and every inch of shelf space is full of books. Five ladders, ranging in height from perhaps ten feet to one that stretches all the way to the ceiling, are ranged around the walls, to grant access to books on high shelves. The only signs of inhabitance are the bed—a little nook cut into the wall, more bookshelves inset behind its head and foot and inner edge—and an octagonal table of carved wood in the center of the floor, surrounded by large, flat pillows. On one of these sits a man with white hair and beard and gold-rimmed spectacles, cross legged. He's dressed in long robes, saffron in color, too simple to be Gallifreyan in design, belted with a wide green sash of raw silk. A fez perches dizzily on one side of his head, apparently defying gravity for the privilege of remaining there.

"Hello," he says brightly. "You were certainly slow enough about coming in. Tea?"

"I...yes, please," says the Master, completely disarmed. The man on the floor in front of him is anything but the Master's idea of a criminal mastermind.

"Milk?"

"Yes."

"One lump, or two?"

"No sugar, thank you."

"No no no, that's the _next_ question."

The Master blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Never mind, never mind. Sit down, young man. Dear me, you don't look at all comfortable in that skin. Not been in it long, have you?"

"No, not long. I'm sorry, but are you Salyavin?"

"You couldn't very well expect me to be someone else, could you? I mean, I didn't have a say in the matter. I am who I am—and so are we all, aren't we?"

Somehow, it makes an alarming degree of sense to the Master that this man is beyond dispute the most able practitioner of mind control their species has ever known. He seems to have sacrificed all control over his own mind, so he's got to make up for it somewhere.

"One might say," the Master agrees, politely. "I am known as the Master."

"Yes, I knew that. The guards don't often talk to me, you know, but they seemed quite eager to inform me that I was going to have company. I'm not certain whether they believed I would be relieved or distressed by that news, but I assure you I'm very glad to meet you, young man."

"And I you, sir."

"You'll be here about an escape attempt, of course."

The Master stops short. "Well...not specifically, no. But were you planning one?"

"What prisoner of anything anywhere isn't planning an escape attempt?" asks Salyavin cheerfully.

"Fair enough," the Master grants, and finds himself actually smiling as he settles down on a cushion of his own. He _likes_ this daft old codger. He doesn't remember the last time he simply enjoyed the company of another of his species. He's afraid it may have been around the time the Doctor left Gallifrey, and hurries to fill the silence. "I don't suppose there's any way I can give you a hand, in yours?"

"I'd not have brought it up, otherwise, would I?" Salyavin hands the Master his tea. It's surprisingly delicious, a hearty, flavorful blend. "For that matter, I'd not _be_ here otherwise. Not if I could have managed this myself."

"And what's to manage?"

"Well. I don't suppose you've ever heard of me..."

"Oh, I most certainly have, sir. I've known your name since I was a boy, and admired your work all my life."

"Really?" Salyavin smiles, with innocent, childish enthusiasm. "Oh, how very kind, young man, how very kind. Then perhaps you know that I have some rather...unusual mental powers."

"Yes, I did indeed."

"Well, of course our fellow Time Lords took that into account, when they imprisoned me here. They've designed a machine to protect their guards from psychic tampering—an electro...electrograma...gramapatatismathon, is I do believe the term. Unfortunately, I've never had any kind of brain for machinery."

"You're in luck," says the Master, his mind already dashing ahead to the next step. "I've spent most of my life working as a scientist and engineer, and electrotelepathigramatismathons are hardly the latest of scientific advances. It'll be tricky, with such limited materials on hand, but they seem to allow us a remarkable amount of leeway, all things considered. Given a little time, I should be able to rig up something that'll interfere with their signal."

"Will you? Well, that's marvelous, my dear fellow, simply marvelous. Now, I am quite capable of maintaining complete mental control over any number of the guards at once, but the full dozen all at one time is rather more than I can hope to sustain very reliably."

"If we can get them apart, that shouldn't be much of a problem. If you can call one or two of them to us at a time, we can tie them up as they come, and leave you free to focus on the others. How many TARDISes are kept on-planet?"

"I'm not certain, but at least two. There won't be any trouble about that."

"Well. That's that, then." The Master stands, dusting off his knees. "Work to be done. Thank you for the tea."

Salyavin gives the Master a strange look from over his spectacles. "You, young man," he says finally, "need to learn how to slow down. You can't live all your lives as though you'll have them to do over. Believe me—I'm old enough to know."

The Master raises an eyebrow. Coming from most men, that comment would leave him annoyed or insulted. From Salyavin, it's easier to take to heart. "You don't want to get out of here, sir?"

"Naturally I do—but only to find some peace. Once I leave this place, I plan on settling down. Become a professor of something or other, I think. On Earth, perhaps. Humans can be rather civilized, under the right circumstances."

"I'll try to remember that if I ever need somewhere to hide from my troubles: a professorship among the humans," the Master smiles. "For now, however, I have a machine to build. It was very nice meeting you, Salyavin."

"And you, Master."

And by the time he makes it back to his own room, the Master is too busy devising a method to pry apart his wall panels to cannibalize the parts inside to give any more thought to the strange Time Lord he has just met, much less his sage advice.

*

It's two weeks before the Master's jamming device is complete. The machine the guards are using to block Salyavin's mind-control abilities operates on an unusually wide band of frequencies, and it's a complicated business to cancel them all out, particularly when the Master hasn't got proper tools or materials to work with. But before too long his technical genius has triumphed, and Salyavin informs him that he now has easy access to the guards' minds. They pack their things, and throw their escape into motion.

It works _almost_ exactly as it's supposed to. Salyavin calls the guards in, one by one, and the Master ties each to the nearest available chair. Soon enough their common area is full of bound guards, and the door to their quarters stands wide open. The Master sees Salyavin into one of the TARDISes in the landing bay, and shakes him by the hand.

"Drop in and see me some time, young fellow. I can't promise I'll remember you right away, but it'll come to me sooner or later, and I'll be glad to see you even so."

The Master laughs. "I may just do that, Professor. Pleasant journeys."

"And to you, young man, and to you."

The Master doesn't often give in to sentimentality, but he stands and watches the professor leave, wondering if he'll ever reach that age, and, if so, if it's possible he could ever be so contented. Once he's built his paradox, when he's got his daughter back—then maybe. Except that, even then, he won't have the Doctor. His younger self will have the younger Doctor, and that will be something. But is there any hope that, just maybe, his own Doctor might...

The Master is too caught up in his thoughts to pay the proper attention. His hand is actually on the door of the TARDIS he's about to fly away in when something hot and horrible blossoms between his shoulder-blades, accompanied by a very loud sound. The Master knows he's felt that pain before, but it takes him a moment to place it. An instinctive reaction to the noise carries him into the TARDIS and slams the door behind him, without looking back, but he catches a glimpse of red in his peripheral vision, and knows that one of the guards must not have been tied as tightly as he thought. And then, as he hurries to throw his new TARDIS into the Vortex before the guards can block the dematerialization, he finally places that sensation.

 _Ah,_ thinks the Master, just as he slumps forward over the console, _it seems I've been shot._

*

This, decides the Master, as he wakes up on his console room floor, is officially absurd. _Everything_ about this is absurd. He's in his _twelfth_ body. He can only regenerate once more, and everything in his life is all wrong. Rose is dead, the Master is a Renegade, the Doctor is running from him, the Device still doesn't work. The entire universe needs fixing.

The Master stands, stiffly, and heads for the wardrobe room to see what he looks like this time. Overall, he decides, looking in the mirror, he approves. This body is a little older than his forms usually start out, but he likes that; it makes him look powerful, distinguished. His hair and beard are black, with grey streaks at his temples and beside his mouth. His skin is several shades darker than the last few times around, though not the darkest it's ever been. He's shorter than the gangling body he's inhabited during his brief stay on Shada. But what he likes best about this form, he can tell right away, is that it's got a sense of humor. This is a form that can laugh at itself and the rest of the universe, and the Master thinks he probably needs that right now. His War Chief self was infernally uptight. If he could have just relaxed a _little_ , perhaps he'd have got something done. But this body has a sense of cool, the kind useful for inspiring confidence. There is a quietness and a competence about this self. He's going to make something of this one. He can feel it.

The Master rummages through his wardrobe, settling on a charcoal grey Nehru jacket and trousers not entirely unlike those he wore among the War Lords, but more sophisticated, more elegant. Lying on the shelf above happen to be a pair of leather gloves, black, and he tries them on, just to see. The moment he pulls them on, he wonders how he could ever have done without them. Perfect. He looks calm. Poised. He looks like a man ready to take on the universe—useful, as that's precisely what he is.

The Master has a plan, now. It's all coalesced neatly in his mind. All the separate threads he's been assembling are coming together. His earliest schemes after he left Gallifrey, the idea of allying himself with sophisticated races for the sake of getting a look at their tech—they weren't so bad, as far as they went. But he'd forgotten that races and nations need a _reason_ to take on allies, a goal. The War Lords taught him that. All the Master has to do, he thinks, is set himself up as an expert in planetary, galactic and/or universal conquest. He's sure he can pull it off. Any race that has heard of Time Lords, it seems, believes the Master's species capable of almost anything. And as a trusted ally and friend, the man who is going to lead a given species to dominance over space and time, he'll have access to every secret for the asking. The greatest technical minds of every race in the galaxy will be at his disposal. He'll have power, and prestige, and will finish his Device in no time. And that isn't all he'll do.

The more the Master thinks about it, the more he takes the Doctor's last private words to him— _When I run, how precisely do you propose to catch me?_ —as a challenge. The Master has a TARDIS now. And it's a smaller universe than it seems. The Master strongly suspects that the Doctor can't have got away from the CIA after the War Lord incident, any more than the Master did himself. That will be a way to start tracking him. The Time Lords will either have grounded the Doctor on Gallifrey, or exiled him somewhere else in the universe, likely enough. Wherever he is, the Master is going to find him.

His life isn't right without the Doctor. The Master had tried not to think of such things, before, but once he saw the Doctor again, he couldn't deny it any longer. And the Doctor is _his_ to win back. The Master was so guilty and lost for so many years, but it isn't like that anymore. The Doctor belongs with him. The Doctor belongs _to_ him. And the Master has made enough allowances. The time has come to be firm.

 _Ready or not, Doctor,_ thinks the Master, _here I come_.


	5. Chapter 5

Before he leaves his first calling card, before he begins their game, before anyone realizes that he's on this absurd planet at all, the Master watches. He has to understand what this new Doctor is like, observe him in his base condition. Unless he knows what the Doctor's eyes looked like before, he won't be able to tell whether they brighten when the Master arrives on the scene.

They do.

*

The Master's interest in ruling the universe is academic at best, as any empire he could build now he's ready and willing to tear down the moment he finishes his Device. But that doesn't make his string of new allies unnecessary. On the contrary. Those allegiances are the justification for his adventures in conquest, carefully and specifically chosen. The Nestene's trick of projecting life into inorganic material, for example—if the Master could transform his energy device into a living thing, he might be able to access a TARDIS's power in its raw state, no need for inefficient conversions. On the other hand, if the Master entrusts to a living creature the paradox that is going to give him his husband and daughter back, he'll have to worry that it might die before they do, and so he's not overly bothered when the Auton scheme goes south. Tinkering with the Keller device adds greatly to his knowledge of biomechanics, as does traveling in the Axons' living ship. All his plans are successes, whether or not the rest of the universe knows it.

Still, it's important that he couch his schemes the way he does. As much as the imperial aspect of his plans gets in the way at times, most races aren't willing simply to hand over the secrets of their most advanced technology to anyone who wanders in and asks. Promise of aid in schemes of universal domination works wonders in loosening tongues and opening laboratory doors. It's also an excellent method of disguising his true intentions to anyone watching. His fellow Time Lords, for example, look with an indulgent eye on the types of boyish pranks that result at worst in the deaths of a primitive species or two, but the sort of temporal meddling that is his ultimate goal would be met with swift and harsh resistance.

And, admittedly, it's possible...probable...almost certain that the Doctor has something to do with shaping the Master's plans.

He finds that tiny hint of a lisp ridiculously distracting.

*

It's not _exactly_ that the Master _means_ his adventures in conquest to become one long exercise in foreplay. But neither can he say that he's displeased with that result.

He likes this new Doctor, a very great deal. He's stronger than the Doctor has ever been before, or at very least much more of a fighter. And the Master knows from the first moment that this new Doctor likes him. They complement each other, well-suited, perfectly balanced. He loves their contrasts—his own simple, elegant, colorless attire beside the Doctor's flamboyant dandyism, the Doctor's pale shock of curls and his own neat dark hair and beard. He doesn't even mind the difference in their heights, though given his druthers he would have preferred to be the tall one. Ah well, he thinks, perhaps next time. At worst, the time after that. It's a very irrelevant detail, really, because he knows the attraction is there on both sides. The Doctor wants him, mind and body. And if the Master plays his cards very, very well indeed, the Doctor may even admit it.

Not that any of this really matters, the Master reminds himself. Not that any of this will count, once he finishes his Device and builds his paradox. The Doctor, _this_ Doctor, shouldn't be his first concern. And he isn't. Clearly, he isn't. That would be ridiculous.

Only...

There is one other thing to consider. If the Master does complete his Device—that is to say, _when_ he completes it—he intends to go back and change the past. His own timeline will unravel, and he'll be stranded in his own past. Which is fine, more than fine, a completely acceptable sacrifice to save his daughter's life. After all, to a traveler in time, past and present mean very little. But there is a snag: it'll mean a universe with two Masters, and only one Doctor. Which would be a much more tolerable state of affairs, except that _he'll_ be the odd Master out. And after three hundred and fifty years spent learning exactly what living without the Doctor means, that isn't such an appealing prospect as it might be.

There's an obvious solution, and it's for the Master to bring his own Doctor back with him. At the center of the paradox, in the eye of the storm, they'd both be protected. But the Doctor has to come willingly, and therein lies the rub. It'd be far too dangerous to bring him by force. After all, a paradox machine is a delicate instrument, and if the Doctor's not on the Master's side, he might easily destroy the paradox from pure spite, leaving the Master right back where he started.

Occasionally, on very long nights, the thought crosses the Master's mind that the Doctor would probably come with him if he begged. If he surrendered their game, and repented of his sins, and promised to be a good little Time Lord forever and ever amen.

Fortunately for the Master's pride, he's got until the Device is finished to try every other option he can possibly think of.

*

The first thing for the Master to do is to keep the Doctor's eyes on him. That's not so very difficult, with the Doctor stuck in a single place and time. Still, the Master learned during their encounter with the War Lords that threats to the Doctor's own safety and that of the humans he collects focus the Doctor's attention to a tantalizing, irresistible degree. It's not that he'd ever actually harm the Doctor—never, _never_ that. He won't even touch the girl who tags along after him; something about the sight of a young blonde woman with the Doctor, hanging on his every word, doting on him, strikes a chord far deeper in the Master than he'd care to admit. But the threat of it, this dangerous game of make-believe, is more than enough to snap the Doctor's gaze straight to the Master the moment he enters a room. And that's an excellent place to start.

Once he's got the Doctor watching, the next step of wooing—as the Master remembers it—is to make offerings. He knows very well that the most important thing he can possibly give his wayward husband is something to think about and to do. He's learned all about the Doctor's exploits during the decade he's spent preparing since their encounter with the War Lords, collected information obsessively from anyone who might know. His Doctor is developing something of a reputation as a hero, of all things, predicated on his many natural talents and an uncanny habit, even for a man with a TARDIS, of ending up in the right place at the right time. But now the Doctor is trapped, unable to find trouble, and the only thing the Master can do is to help trouble along in finding him instead. The Master always makes sure he's the one at the helm. He's confident that the game cannot spiral out of control and do the Doctor real harm. It's all just so much exercise, keeping the Doctor's mind and instincts and reflexes sharp, keeping him contented and well-supplied with puzzles and with praise. And in return, all the Master expects is for the Doctor to remember who it is that has given him so much.

The Master hasn't forgotten, however, that his Doctor can sometimes be appallingly literal-minded. If he happens to be in a stubborn mood (and this version is supremely stubborn at times), he could easily brush off all the time and effort the Master has put into his care and feeding. He could pretend, however much they both know the truth, that the Master actually wants to conquer this pathetic little planet. And so he intersperses the grand offerings of his most magnificent schemes—the first of which involves an alliegance with the Nestene to take over the Earth—with other presents, simpler and more concrete. He starts small, very small, until he can be certain what the Doctor thinks of it all. And as it turns out, the Master manages, to his own deep disgust, to botch even _that_.

"Daffodils!" the Master screeches. "Not _daffodils_! They were meant to be _daisies_ , you incompetent imbecile! Daffodils aren't..." _proof that I've remembered the Doctor's favorite ridiculous rambling anecdote all these years_ "... remotely acceptable," he finishes, somewhat anticlimactically.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Colonel Masters," stammers the sweating lackey who has come bearing a first sample. "But I'm afraid it's too late to..."

The great advantage of his TCE, the Master thinks, is that it's so very, very easy to hide the bodies.

Unfortunately, it is indeed too late to halt production. Still, there's nothing for it but to go on with the scheme, now it's rolling. Flowers were never a sufficiently personal offering, anyhow. Far too cliché. It hardly matters that the Nestene's scheme for global domination goes wrong; the Master will have to try again if he wants to please his Doctor, anyhow. And a pleasant little interlude with a very lively phone chord in the course of that opening skirmish brings to mind a way that the Master can do better, next time.

*

"Do you like it, Doctor?" the Master purrs. Oh, yes, this is _much_ more like it. Alone together, in control of the situation, the Doctor strapped to a chair. Just like the old days. Possibly even better. "I designed it specially, just for you."

"And what, precisely, led you to believe I might like being strapped to a chair by a lunatic criminal, hmmm?"

The Master is proud of this plan. He's been carrying around a Proamonian fear parasite in his TARDIS for months just for this. A chance to show off his engineering prowess, steal a nuclear warhead, hold the Earth hostage _and_ slip in a little light bondage—what could be better?

"Such fond nicknames, Doctor—though I would prefer you to use my name. As to what led me to the conclusion that you were certain to enjoy it, do you really need to ask, Doctor?"

"I can't think of anything I've ever done or said that might..."

"When we were in our fifties," the Master walks around the Doctor's chair and stands behind him, murmuring into his ear, "our quarters at the Academy had that wonderful old armchair, do you remember? With gaps in the arms, just the right size for a pair of knees to slip into, on either side of another pair of thighs?" He nuzzles into the Doctor's ear, briefly, and then continues, "Those hideous Prydonian robes did get in our way more often than not, of course, but their sashes were infinitely useful. It was your...fifty-sixth birthday, wasn't it? The night I stripped you naked, tied your arms behind that armchair, and licked my way up your body, from your toes all the way to your ears?" The Master runs his tongue over the Doctor's ear now, for punctuation. The Doctor's rate of respiration increases threefold, and the Master's cock twitches hard in the tight confines of his trousers. It's been so long since he's had a proper taste of his Doctor, and it's _good_.

"Of course," says the Master, his voice decidedly hoarse, as he runs one of his hands over the Doctor's chest and down, "I was careful to avoid the one spot where you wanted my mouth most of all." He slides his open palm over the Doctor's trouser front, and is extremely gratified by what he feels. "I don't recall making you beg for too long. It _was_ your birthday, after all. But I don't think just a little pleading was too much to ask, do you, Doctor?" He lets the implication hang in the air: _beg prettily enough for me now, Doctor, and I'll give you precisely what I know you want._

The Master can feel the Doctor struggling for composure, feel him fighting his own body, his own desire to buck his hips into the hand pressed over his erection. "I really couldn't say," he finally manages, in an only slightly shaky tone, "as I have no recollection of the occasion whatsoever. Clearly, it wasn't so memorable as you suppose."

The Master flushes with anger, and, without warning, tightens the hand over the Doctor's groin, digging in his fingertips. Even with the Doctor's trousers in the way, preventing the Master's fingernails from biting, it's more than hard enough to hurt, and the Doctor gasps. "Very well, Doctor. If you'd really prefer to keep this to all business, I shall leave the recollections out of it."

"I somehow doubt you can manage that," snipes the Doctor, his voice tense, "but please do try."

The Master pulls away from the Doctor, strolls across the room, and taps on the control panel for his fear machine. The Keller Machine has been one of his most important steps so far in bio-electronic engineering, and he's quite eager to hear the Doctor's justified praise. "As you see, I have affected the necessary repairs. But," as he turns and heads back towards the Doctor, "before I let you control this machine for me—which I fully intend that you shall," he leans in close over his Doctor, hands on the arms of his chair. The Doctor looks away, trying, spectacularly unsuccessfully, to hide how affected he is by the Master's proximity, "it'll be very interesting to see exactly how long you can hold out against it." The Doctor meets his eyes for the tiniest of moments, and the Master knows he's heard the subtext: _And against me, and against the attraction you can't possibly deny for long._

"Now, somewhere you have...aha." The Master pats the Doctor down, retrieves the earpiece that accompanies the Keller Device, and watches, deeply satisfied, as the Doctor struggles to keep his features calm, struggles not to take the kiss he's within lunging distance of now. "Now, this little device, as you know, transmits and amplifies the power of the machine. What you may not know is that it can be adjusted to turn that power against the wearer." The Doctor can't resist looking for long. Twice more his gaze flickers up and then away. Oh, this is _delicious_ ; this is _perfect_. The Master has no idea where he came by the self-control that's stopping him straddling his Doctor and kissing him like the sky is falling. But it'll be so much better if the Doctor is the one to make the first move. "Like this..." he trails his fingers over the Doctor's neck as he reaches up to press the earpiece into the same ear that his tongue was laving only a few minutes ago.

The Master moves to the Keller Machine, and flicks a switch or two. He can tell that the Doctor's eyes stay on him all the while. It's several moments before the Doctor recovers enough to realize that it's his turn to speak. "You know, this is all very tiresome," he finally says.

"Is it?" It's so patent a lie that the Master laughs. He's very fond of his own laugh in this body, round and smooth and genuine without lacking for a hint of menace when he chooses. He's _won_ —he's so very clearly won. He walks across the room once more, to press a few unnecessary buttons and let the Doctor admire the view. Best now, he thinks, to let the lesson sink in for a bit. He doesn't want to leave the Doctor, not a bit of it, but it's what the situation demands. The Master can't wait to see how the Doctor's face will light up when he returns.

"Oh, I really would like to stop and watch your nightmares..."

"Then why don't you?" That voice is far too serious and too sharp, not a game at all. It almost stops the Master. But there's a plan, and he intends to stick to it.

"I have other business, as you know. Will you excuse me?"

 _Coward._ They've touched recently enough, and their mental bond is strong enough, that the Doctor can just barely manage to whisper into the Master's head without physical contact. _Stay and see what I dream of, Master. I guarantee you, you won't like it one tiny bit._

The Master doesn't deign to answer. But he hurries to his office, to watch the Doctor squirm. The earpiece the Doctor is wearing will transmit his neural patterns to a special viewscreen the Master's rigged up, so he can indeed see what his Doctor's greatest fear might be.

The Master's been vaguely expecting the usual thing: monsters and mayhem and things that go bump in the night. And there _are_ monsters floating haphazardly through the Doctor's consciousness, old foes he's fought and defeated. But the predominant image is fire, a wall of fire, an explosion—an explosion that is different in the Master's eyes from any other flame that has ever been, because once he was inside of it, and so was his daughter.

 _No_. Oh, no no _no_. Oh, what has the Master been _thinking_ of? Why didn't he _consider_...

"Doctor," he gasps, and rushes back to the process room, fighting the increasing pain in his own head. By the time he makes it to the controls he's staggering. And by the time he gets the damned thing turned off, one of the Doctor's hearts has stopped beating. But there must be some mercy in the universe, because the other is still pumping, and soon enough the Master is able to bring him back.

When he comes to, the Doctor pretends that this has all been about controlling the device. That it's been all business, as he said earlier. And the Master pretends right along with him, because it's all too horrible, too much, and too soon, even three hundred and sixty-three years later. He makes routine threats and spouts predictable bluster, and sends the Doctor to Jo Grant, who he knows will do her best to take care of him. It's all he can do. He's ruined this opportunity too.

And a few minutes later, when the Keller device turns on him, and forces the Master to relive in updated form the Doctor's horrible laughter on the night he flew away and left, the Master knows it's nothing more than he deserves.

*

The Master continues with the Stangmoor prison plan, because he's already in too deep, and because the Doctor deserves it. But his hearts aren't in it any longer. He's quietly courteous to the Doctor when they meet again, as deferential as this version of himself is capable of. He compliments the Doctor's ingenuity in devising a control method for the rebellious Keller Device, and does as the Doctor asks to aid in its deployment. And the Doctor responds in kind, his behavior a bit formal but not angry, because those memories aren't any easier for one of them than the other. The Master keeps on with his plan, because on the off-chance of it working the planet Earth would be a very nice gift for the Doctor indeed. But when the Doctor offers him a way out of it, in exchange for the return of the Master's own stolen demat circuit, he takes it.

Once his TARDIS is fixed, after all, the Doctor won't be able to pretend that the Master is on Earth for any other reason than to be near _him_.

*

The Axos scheme is one the Master prefers not to think of, later. It had gone sour practically before it started, and only kept going sourer. The Master supposes it's proof that he's got this routine down pat, by now, that he ever managed to get the Axons on his side at all when he'd found them by accident, forced by a TARDIS malfunction to land unexpectedly inside their ship. And the fact that he's as much the Axons' prisoner as their ally will permit for the playing of a new kind of scenario, this time. He tells the Axons that what he wants is the destruction of Earth and the Doctor's death, because that can mean a daring rescue on his part, galloping in on a white horse to save his Doctor in the nick of time. The risk is tiny, negligible: if there's a danger in the universe that can threaten the Doctor with _both_ of them fighting to protect him, the Master can't imagine what it would be.

But it isn't what the Master would call a _proper_ sort of scheme. Not satisfying, really. He's working with the materials he's got on hand, and sometimes, that's how it goes.

There is a brief while, however, while the Master is alone in the Doctor's TARDIS, tinkering and fiddling, when the past stands very close over his shoulder in a not entirely unpleasant way. He's spent a long time trying not to remember the fact that this was once _their_ TARDIS, or his even more than the Doctor's. She is the Doctor's now, though, all the way through. He made her fly, and he made her his own. And she's the lover he left the Master for. She's the freedom that has kept the Doctor, until now, out of reach.

The Master should hate this blue box. But he never has, and never can. She played a role in the accident that shattered the Master's life, and a far larger one in taking the Doctor away from him. But he can't hate her, because so many of his own earliest hopes once throbbed with her heartbeat, and because the Doctor loves her with the sort of pure affection of which even the Master cannot be jealous. And so he does what he can to heal her, to make her the flying machine she was always meant to be, even though he knows that a Doctor with a fully functional TARDIS will mean a Doctor once more free to run away from him. Some things, every now and then, are worth working against self-interest.

Even if it _does_ mean being captured by those idiots at UNIT.

*

The Master thinks that the sight of his tender treatment of this old TARDIS may be what softens the Doctor, when he finally arrives. The moment they're alone in the TARDIS the Doctor puts away the gun they both know he'd never use, the one keeping the Master a theoretical prisoner, and admits that, this time, he hasn't got a plan to stop the enemy of the week. He hasn't got a plan, and yet he's brought the Master here with him, asked for the Master's help in a scheme to dislodge the Axons from this planet.

It all begs the question, "Well then why..."

"Because if you mend the TARDIS, we can both escape."

 _We_. _We_ and _both_. It's absurd, utterly absurd, absurd on the level of schoolgirl foolishness, what those words do to the Master, coming from the Doctor's mouth. Those two words are breathtaking, and the larger statement more breathtaking still.

"Both? Tell me, Doctor, are..." How to say it? How much to ask? How much to offer? How personal is too personal? How cold is too cold? And how can he possibly keep the hope out of his voice? "...are you suggesting an alliance?"

"Why not?" The Doctor turns away, begins to pace, and the Master is almost glad, because he can stare at the Doctor openly, now. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life as a heap of dust on a second-rate planet to a third-rate star. Do you?"

The Master won't accept halves. He can't. He needs to be certain that the Doctor means he's really coming back to him. He needs to be _sure_. He needs to be sure _before_ he rushes over and tears off all the Doctor's clothes. "Do you mean to say that you are actually prepared to abandon your beloved Earth to the Axons' tender mercies?"

"Certainly. After all, we are," the Doctor doesn't pause, but he gives a quickly suppressed little moue of a smile before he finishes, "both Time Lords."

"Maybe, but...look, why should I help you?" He can't forget what the Doctor had said, on their last night together. He's heard it in his head a million times. He cannot forget 'You are no longer my husband,' and only when the Doctor grants the opposite will everything truly be all right.

"Because if you don't, I shall hand you over to UNIT, and you'll become a prisoner on a doomed planet." Ah. So now the Master knows just how far he can push this. Not as far as he'd like to, but he's got room enough to work.

"Yes, well, you'll be doomed along with me," he points out. The Doctor has circled the console and is now just beside him—too close for indifferent acquaintances, and _certainly_ too close for enemies.

"Exactly. We either escape together, or we die together."

Not only 'we' and 'both,' but 'together,' yet. Living or dying as one. The thought is enough to make the Master's throat go dry. But he can't get sloppy. Not now. Not so near the finish line. He _needs_ to hear the Doctor say it plainly, no excuses in dying planets and sameness of blood. "Oh, very generous. But look, why not just hand me over to UNIT and make your escape by yourself?"

The Doctor opens his mouth, and shuts it again. The Master clamps down on an entreaty, the ' _please, Doctor, just say it_ ' that he wants so much to speak, as the Doctor walks around him, rubbing his own neck. "Well?" the Master asks instead, gentle and yet unable to hide his impatience.

"Because the Time Lords have put a block on my knowledge of dematerialization theory, that's why."

The Doctor has always been one for dancing around the point, but this is becoming absurd. "Oh, I see," the Master says, laughing a little to prove that he knows it's just an evasion.

"Yes, well, we haven't got much time," the Doctor blusters. "What's your decision?"

It isn't enough. 'Uneasy allies' doesn't fall within the same galaxy of what he wants to be with the Doctor. But sharing a TARDIS will guarantee him constant access, and that's far more than enough to make it worth it, when refusal will gain him nothing at all except one very minor addition to his pride. "All right. I accept."

"Good. Well, you're the mechanic," the Master raises his eyebrows at that acknowledgement, one he'd never have expected, "what's the answer?"

The Master explains the technicalities of repairing the Doctor's TARDIS while the Doctor prepares to depart, no doubt off to reassure his pets of a rescue which, if the Doctor has been telling the truth, will never come. Before he goes, however, he stops to open a panel and pull out the helmic regulator, tossing it in his hand.

"Just in case you were thinking of leaving without me," he says, and the Master laughs. The Doctor is on his way out the door, but, at the last moment, the Master turns and catches him by the arm.

"And why," he asks, smiling, giddy with this sudden hope, "would I possibly want to do that?"

Something strange happens in the Doctor's face. "Oh, one never knows about these things," he says, would-be casually, and then slips from the Master's grip, and is gone.

It isn't long before the Master understands what that look was about. The Doctor hates to be the villain, even if only he and the Master will ever think of it that way. He hates having played on the Master's hopes, even by way of saving Earth. And the Master hates and pardons him in a single thought, because whatever else the Master is, he's not a hypocrite.

Forgiveness is the thing that he wants from the Doctor the most. He can hardly fail to grant it in his turn.

*

This time, the Master vows, there is going to be nothing half-baked about his scheme. He's going to do it _right_ , this time. The Doctor deserves the universe on a silver platter, and the Master refuses to offer him anything less. And if he's going to do that, he needs to know where to find a silver platter quite that big.

Not to mention, if the scheme itself falls through, the Doctor will at least have to be impressed that the Master has managed to break into the Matrix itself.

To tell the truth, it's disgustingly easy. The Matrix is generally accessed through the Coronet of Rassilon, by the Lord High President, or else in a limited and heavily restricted fashion through computer terminals on Gallifrey. But everyone—except, apparently, the Master—seems to forget that the Matrix occupies a physical location. The data of the Matrix is stored in a pocket dimension navigated by the APC net. But with a bit of very, very clever TARDIS piloting, it's not impossible to land _within_ that pocket dimension as real space.

The Time Lords, the Master realizes with scorn, are utterly unprepared to address an intrusion of this kind. There isn't even a warning system in place. He has all the time he likes to wander through the endless information gathered by his species over thousands of thousands of years, cherry-picking precisely what he likes. He manages to discover a few little technical secrets that should be thoroughly useful for his Device, has a very pleasant conversation with the memory data that represents some of the key names in paradox mechanics from eras past, and, to top it off, discovers just the sort of fascinating factoid that will provide an excellent basis for his next plan.

Before he leaves the Matrix, the Master builds himself a backdoor, carefully hidden. And then he makes just as much noise as possible about leaving, and smears his fingerprints everywhere he can, because he _wants_ his theft to be noticed and traced to its source. It isn't a matter of vanity—though perhaps just a little. It's that he has a sneaking suspicion of precisely who the CIA will send after him, and he can't ever resist killing two birds with one stone.

*

And _this_ , the Master thinks, triumphant, is what it's all about. This is his moment, the one he's been waiting centuries for, the one he dreamed of even in the golden years, when he had a daughter to dream for, too. He's got the Uxariean doomsday device under his hands, near limitless power at his fingertips—not the power he wants, not for his paradox, though that will come in time—and the Doctor there with him, to share in his majesty. They can make themselves emperors, side by side, and of the entire universe; the Master scoffs at his younger self, naive enough to believe that Gallifrey alone would be enough. The Master realizes fully for the first time that possession is equivalent to the capacity to destroy. He can tear down the universe with a gesture, in this moment, and therefore the universe belongs to him.

The Doctor can tear down the Master with a word, in this moment, and therefore the Master belongs to him.

"...we could be Masters of the galaxy," the Master is saying, knowing that the Doctor will think, as he is thinking, of what it means when humans agree to share a name, and know what the Master's really referring to. "Think of it, Doctor. Absolute power! Power for good," he adds earnestly, knowing his Doctor only too well. "Why, you could reign benevolently! You could end war, suffering, disease! We could save the universe."

The Doctor considers hard, one finger tugging at his lip. The Master can almost taste that lip under his own. In seconds, he _will_ be able to taste it. The Doctor cannot refuse such an offer as this one, so princely, so _magnificent_. He'll say yes, and then the Master will be able to take the kiss he's been waiting for so long, and far, far more than that, too...

"No. Absolute power is evil."

The Doctor can't mean it. It simply isn't possible. "Consider carefully, Doctor. I'm offering you a half share in the _universe_. You _must_ see reason, Doctor."

"No," the Doctor repeats. "I will not join you in your absurd dreams of a galactic conquest!"

He means it. How can he mean it? "But why?" the Master asks, frustrated beyond expressing. He stalks across the room, and snaps back at the Doctor, "Why? Look at this..." He walks to the control panel, zooms out the view on the monitor displaying the Milky Way. " _Look_ at all those planetary systems, Doctor. We could rule them all!"

"What for? What is the point?" the Doctor sounds colder all the time. Something is going wrong, very, very wrong, but the Master doesn't know what it could possibly be. _Why_ won't the Doctor see sense?

"The point is that one must rule or serve. That's a basic law of life. Why do you hesitate, Doctor?" The Master tamps down his anger, focuses on charm. "Surely it's not loyalty to the Time Lords who exiled you on one insignificant planet?"

"You'll never understand, will you?" There is more than a hint of sadness in the Doctor's voice. The Master notes, with rising panic, that it's the most hopeful sign he's had in this whole conversation. "I want to _see_ the universe, not rule it!"

The Master loses his patience, then, as he's forced to accept that the Doctor really does believe what he's saying. "Then I'm very sorry, Doctor," he growls, pointing his weapon in the Doctor's direction. There isn't any greater gift the Master can offer than this. If the entire universe isn't enough, there's nothing more the Master can do this way. He'll have to try another method of stealing back the Doctor's hearts, and the only plan that comes to mind is to keep the Doctor near him at all costs. Besides, the Doctor just said he wanted to see the universe. The Master will bring him back to his own TARDIS, at gunpoint if necessary, and take him away from all this. The Master prefers not to think of it as kidnapping, much less keeping the Doctor a prisoner. They're married, after all. Married persons are _meant_ to live together. He'll give the Doctor the run of his TARDIS, and take him anyplace he likes, and they'll get used to each other again. In time the Doctor is certain to decide that he's precisely where he wants to be.

The Master's scheming is interrupted by the untimely arrival of the Uxariean Guardian, and somehow even this perfect plan ends just as badly as all the others. He's forced to make yet another escape, sans Doctor and sans dignity. But he has no intention of giving up. He _will_ win his Doctor, and build his Device. Minor failures are inconsequential.

He only wishes he didn't have to give himself that same pep talk so very often.

*

The Azal plan, the Master admits, is half-baked in and of itself. He doesn't give even three quarters of a damn about daemons of any description. All he wants is to get close enough to grab the Doctor, shove him into his TARDIS, and run.

Naturally, it doesn't work out quite that way.

*

The Master has a high threshold for embarrassment. He can endure a very great deal without ruffled feathers. But being captured by those human imbeciles at UNIT, with the Doctor watching, is more than enough to make the Master cringe.

Still, there are advantages. It's almost ironic, in fact. The Master's been trying to guarantee his own nearness to the Doctor, all this while, and now they're trapped in the same orbit, the Doctor by his exile and the Master by his capture. The Doctor can come to see him whenever he likes, has him within easy, almost irresistible reach.

It's two excruciatingly dull months before the Doctor _does_ come, and when he finally arrives, he has Jo Grant with him.

It's not easy to go on playing this game with a smile, the Master thinks in exasperation, when the Doctor so clearly has not read his copy of the rules.

*

Fortunately, the Master doesn't have long to wait before the Doctor's next visit. To his astonishment, the Doctor turns up the next evening—the one time the Master would have bet a fortune that he'd stay away. And he's come alone.

This time, the Master holds out his hand the moment the Doctor enters his cell, and this time, the Doctor takes it, none of that awkward maneuvering away from contact that marked the end of that last visit. They both know perfectly well what the Doctor doing here, and neither of the selves they are now is any good at playing coy. Or perhaps that's not right at all—perhaps that's all they've ever done in these bodies. But they're both of them Time Lords, and neither can pretend not to know why the Doctor has chosen to visit on this particular night. Their sense of the passing of minutes and hours and years and centuries is far too clear for that. The Master is surprised, almost shocked, that the Doctor has chosen to acknowledge what this day means. But there's no other conceivable reason for him to be here, and the Master is the last man to fail to take advantage.

"Doctor," he says, not at all certain what all those strange notes in his own voice mean, but knowing it's the truest word he's ever spoken with these lips.

The Doctor's eyes are conflicted. He doesn't pull away, but neither does he speak the name that is the Master's due. "Five hundred years," he says instead, and that's concession enough.

"Five hundred years," the Master agrees. The Master finds it difficult remember that they were ever so young, or so idealistic, or so trusting. But he's quite certain that he's only lost in the way of wisdom since then, because he knows he's never done a better day's work than then, five hundred years ago to the day—standing beside the Doctor, their hands tangled tight as they are now, speaking the words that would leave them bound as inextricably in the eyes of the wider universe as they had considered themselves to be for as long as either could remember.

Gallifreyan marriage ceremonies are nothing like those on this benighted planet they're both trapped on. There is no exchange of tokens, and shockingly little in the way of pomp. The vows speak a brief and simple poetry:

 _As time binds all times into one, so let us become  
As life binds all lives into one, so let us become   
As love binds all loves into one, so let us become  
As one in love and life and time, so let us become._

As was customary, the Doctor and the Master had been alone but for each other when they had spoken those words, and the rite had culminated in the most intricate and intimate psychic act that two Time Lords can perform.

Remembering, as he knows the Doctor is remembering, the Master takes the Doctor's other arm, and then slides his hands up to rest just below the Doctor's elbows. They stand as a set of parallels—their arms, right to left, and to the ground beneath them, and the sky above; their bodies to each other, near but separate, standing straight and tall. And now they are alligned, the Master waits, because the Doctor has to be the one to start this, and they both of them know it.

The wait seems interminable. The Master's insides are just beginning to turn sour, as he prepares to murder the emotion that he didn't realize was hope, when the Doctor finally acts. The contact so slight and tentative that the Master can hardly feel it at first, and then he remembers, with a jolt, that their fellow Time Lords have been rooting around in his Doctor's mind, and pity and affection and understanding entirely shift his view of the situation. He reaches out for the tiny tendril of artron energy that has sunk into his skin from the Doctor's fingertips and tugs it, very gently, as he sends out a more substantial stream of artron through his own hands and into the Doctor. Slowly, coaxingly, the Master draws the Doctor's life-force into himself, even as he feels his own begin to flow through the Doctor's veins, and soon the Doctor has re-learned this feeling, and gives of himself actively, freely, joyfully. The Master's eyes slide shut, and when he opens them again, golden sparks dance off his eyelashes, a match for the glowing of the Doctor's eyes. His whole body is humming, the haecceity of the Doctor threading its way into his every sinew.

It isn't like sex. It isn't even like mental contact. It's like living in the same skin, and sharing the same soul. In another language, the word for this act would translate most nearly to "unification." But in Gallifreyan, it's far more concrete and unambiguous. There is no concealment in dead languages or forgotten tenses—this is a "becoming-one."

This kind of contact isn't meant to last; it cannot, and it doesn't. It wanes like the passing of the seasons or the phases of a moon, natural and gradual and right. For once in their lives, the Master and the Doctor accept what is fact. Very little is sacred to the Time Lords, and still less to that species' most infamous renegades, but they know that this is larger than themselves, and simply feel it while it lasts. When they cross to the bed and lie down, side by side, it's with only the last, residual glow of that bond on their skins. The Master wraps his arms around the Doctor, and reaches up to turn off the light.

"Master."

The Master has been half-asleep, drifting in the perfect warmth of afterglow, of the Doctor beside him, even in this ridiculous, uncomfortable bed not nearly big enough for two. "Hmm?"

"I hope you know this doesn't mean I have any intention of helping you to escape."

The Master freezes. "I'm sorry?" he asks, quiet and sharp-edged.

"Well. I simply don't want you getting ideas, that's all. Not that that wasn't pleasant, of course."

For longer than he can ever remember doing before in his life, the Master stays absolutely, completely still. When he does move, it's only his lips.

" _Get out_."

"Sorry?"

It sounds like a genuine question. As though the Doctor is truly in the dark. As though he really doesn't understand what he's done. As though he _honestly_ doesn't see how entirely he's just cheapened the one, single moment of pure goodness that the Master has known for hundreds of years.

The Master pulls away sharply, sits up, turns on the light. "Get _out_. Get out _right now_."

"I don't see what..."

"Stop talking, and _get out_!"

The Doctor sits up too, and raises an eyebrow. "There's no need to be petty about it, old chap, I..."

The Master lets out a strangled scream, and before he fully understands what's happening the Doctor's head is hitting the stone floor with a very nasty crack, and the Master is on top of him. "Shut up and get out, or I will _kill you_ , Doctor. I'll _kill_ you for ruining this, you miserable, cold-hearted _bastard_ , you..."

There are hands pulling him off of the Doctor, too-hot human hands belonging to the guards who must have been watching all the time, and the Master is kicking and scratching and biting like a thing possessed. The Doctor stops for just a moment in the doorway, looking back, and there's a spark in his eyes of comprehension, and then of _pity_. The Master snarls, a sound he cannot ever recall making before, and then one of the UNIT goons is prodding him with something that sends electricity screeching through the Master's bones. The voltage is far too high for a human to survive, high enough to actually hurt, and the only way these Earthlings could have known to do that is through the _Doctor_ , teaching his primitive pets how to keep his _lunatic criminal_ of a husband _under control_. It makes him furious all over again, enough to keep fighting, and they shock him again, and he keeps fighting, and again, and he keeps on, and again. By the time he looks back up, dangling on the ragged edge of consciousness, the Doctor is gone, and the Master slips into blackness with a bitter spasm of laughter on his lips.

Starting from now, things are going to be very, _very_ different.

*

The Master doesn't know the next morning whether he's angrier at himself for his own loss of control, or at the Doctor for causing it. But he does know that has no intention of still being in this absurd little box the next time the Doctor comes to call. He's not going to spend all his lives giving the Doctor second chances. He has a much larger second chance to engineer, for the both of them, and he'll only have one life after this to make it happen. He's wasted enough time. He throws his escape plan into full gear, and before long he's waving goodbye through the window of a helicopter with a nasty little grin on his lips. _That's what you get, Doctor,_ he thinks, and pretends he doesn't feel anything but triumph as the figures on the ground fade from view.

The Master's commitment to his grand plan has only been strengthened by the personal and professional debacle of his recent imprisonment. He is going to get straight to work. He is going to devote every waking minute to achieving his paradox and rescuing his Rose.

Or, possibly, he's going to spend the next week getting falling-down drunk, and brooding about that useless scab who calls himself the Doctor.

One of the two.

*

The Master cannot possibly help the fact that the only way to get his hands on a Chronovore requires him to stay on Earth. He has no idea how that summoning crystal—one of half-a-dozen designed by the Time Lords themselves, in Rassilon's own day—is even still in existence. Time Lord legend claims that all six were destroyed once the Chronovores' true natures as devourers was understood. That one still remains is a mystery, and how it ever came to be in the hands of a group of primitive humans is a still greater one. But having learned from the Sea Devils, quite by accident, that one tribe of their people had been awoken in Greece many centuries ago by a group of humans who worshiped a living god, and that this god had been a white bird that fed on time itself, the Master had considered himself bound to investigate. And having learned so much, he cannot simply walk away.

The Chronovores, if the legends the Master learned as a boy are to be trusted to any extent, are beings of almost unimaginable power, and Kronos the most powerful of all. The Master isn't certain whether or not such a creature could simply give him his life back, raise Rose from the dead with the power of its thoughts, but it's more than worth a try. And when in the course of his scheme, he happens to encounter, in quick succession, both the Doctor and a veritable queen who just happens to find the Master thoroughly irresistible, well, jealousy is one method of winning back his Doctor that he _hasn't_ attempted yet. The carrot has been as ineffectual as it can possibly be, and so he may as well try the stick.

Galleia isn't so bad for a human, the Master supposes. He has always liked redheads, and she does have spirit. That doesn't mean he actually wants to fuck her, but he knows enough about human psychology to be certain that she won't trust him if he doesn't, and so he grits his teeth and goes through with it. She seems to enjoy it, anyhow, which is enough to be getting on with. And afterwards he doesn't stop to wash off the scent of sex, much as he wants to, because Time Lord senses are very, very good, and he needs the Doctor to know. He chains the Doctor beside his new throne as King of Atlantis, and lets the Doctor see precisely what the Master prefers to _him_ , these days. And then the Master summons the Chronovore to him, to make his own victory complete.

One of these days, the Master thinks, one of his plans is going to work. Just one of these days. Statistically speaking, if he keeps trying for long enough, it _has_ to happen sooner or later. It turns out that Chronovores don't take to domestication. It also turns out that the Doctor's imagination is so limited that, when said Chronovore offers him absolutely anything he can possibly want, the only thing he can ask for is to be transported home. There are days when the Master can't _believe_ he ever fell in love with such an imbecile.

He doesn't think it's wise to mention that, however. Not this exact second. Not when the Master is in the grips of an unimaginably powerful creature which happens not to be at all kindly disposed towards him, and happens, conversely, to be very kindly disposed indeed towards his idiot husband.

The Master makes a show of it, but not because he thinks that's what the Doctor needs. They both know he's smirking into his beard all the while, overacting egregiously, even as he flings himself onto his knees and begs with hands upraised. The Doctor will save him no matter what—they are both certain of that. But if the Master remained sullen and defiant, the Doctor would seem all the more noble for rescuing the Master anyhow, whereas if the Master begs, it makes the Doctor look like a puffed-up egoist, who cares more for feeling powerful than for doing right. It's the closest the Master can come to a win, and it doesn't hurt his pride. He's begged on his knees to the Doctor once before, and in a far better cause.

And there is one additional advantage to that particular mode of persuasion.

As the Master shoves the Doctor and Miss Grant into the Doctor's TARDIS, he just manages to brush his fingers over the Doctor's arm. And in that split second of contact, he pushes an image into the Doctor's mind—an image of just what _else_ the Master could do for the Doctor on his knees.

The Master is a Time Lord, and Time Lord senses are very, very good. He hears the way the Doctor's breath hitches, even as he's dashing for his own TARDIS, and making his escape.

Let the Doctor be the one left thinking of what he's missing, for once.

*

The Master really does devote himself to his research, after that. For some two years, he behaves himself, and stays out of the Doctor's sphere. And it pays off—he makes enormous strides on his Device, especially in his methods of energy absorption and storage, thanks to several fortuitous alliances. Output regulation is still an issue, however, and until the Master fully works it out, his Device will never be dependable.

It's a moment of emotion and misjudgment that leads the Master to his ill-formed allegiance with the Daleks. He'd never so much as heard the name 'Dalek' before Susan told him the story of her time on Earth. As with any new word one has only just learned, however, that name pops up everywhere from the moment the Master first hears it. Everyone he meets seems to mention the Daleks, almost as if it were some sort of rule. The Daleks have conquered a solar system here; the Daleks have massacred a species there; the Daleks are the threat by which an entire corner of the universe defines itself. Suddenly, a species of tactless gelatinous sociopaths, incapable of so much as climbing a flight of stairs, has begun to gain the sort of power the Master only ever catches a glimpse of, sideways, as it's slipping through his fingers.

The Master, whatever his faults, is very far from a stupid man. If he really made an effort at it, he _could_ become the ruler this universe, he's certain of it—but that doesn't mean he can take on a species of ruthless conquering machines single-handedly, or deceive them, or keep them under his control. And so he doesn't go looking for them, not right away. There are some things too big to be taken on just yet. There is only one name that could sufficiently cloud the Master's judgment—as he admits later—to send him _looking_ for the robotic terror of this side of space.

"The Daleks are looking for _whom_?"

"Some bloke called Doctor." The Master's underworld contact on New New New New New New New New Earth, who has a source on some stolen Hath tech, shrugs as he says it. "'e's a Gallifreyan too, they say. Reward's e- _nor_ -mous. An' I _don'_ fink they want 'im for anyfing nice."

" _The_ Doctor," the Master corrects, not really thinking about it.

"D'you know 'im, then?"

"One might say," the Master says, sourly. "But I have no intention of discussing him. Now, if you have what you claim, I'm willing to meet your price, but only..."

The Master maneuvers his way out of the negotiation as quickly as he can, and hurries back to his TARDIS to think. The Daleks are after the Doctor, _his_ Doctor. The Master's first instinct is to warn the Doctor, to protect him, but he stamps that down as quickly as he can possibly manage. That isn't his job anymore. The Doctor wouldn't believe him, anyway. All the Master would get for his trouble would be insulted, and perhaps even recaptured by UNIT. No, it would be foolish to do anything from concern for the Doctor. Where anyone but the Master himself is concerned, the Doctor can take care of himself, anyway.

But there's an opportunity to be had, in this. The Master wants the Doctor captive. The Daleks want the Doctor captive. Surely there's some way of taking advantage of that fact? But the Master's got to be in the right place at the right time if he's going to snatch the Doctor from out of the Daleks' clutches (preferably in sufficiently heroic fashion to leave the Doctor swooning, but any method that results in the Doctor secure in the Master's leather-clad hands is acceptable). And the only way of doing _that_ , so far as he can tell, is to join forces with the Daleks.

He _is_ as careful about it as he can be. The Master limits his contact with the Daleks themselves just as sharply as he can, doing business through the Ogrons as much as possible, billing himself simply as an old enemy of the Doctor's, and not as the Time Lords' resident expert in conquest. He'll candidly admit—to himself, at any rate—that they terrify him, these living tanks with the screeching voices and the soulless single eyes. The Master had hoped that he might gain some technical advantage through this allegiance, as he has through the others these past years, but Dalek science turns out to be laughably basic in every arena but killing. In that, they are geniuses, and the Master grudgingly respects the fact. But that doesn't mean he wants to spend any time at all being near them.

The plot to set the humans and Draconians at war, thereby decimating the two great civilizations of this time period and freeing up the field for the Daleks to take over, is the Master's. It requires a better grasp of humanoid psychology than the Daleks will ever have. The Master doesn't expect the Doctor to show up until the Dalek empire has already been established, anticipates that the chance to topple a tyrannical regime will be the irresistible lure to the Doctor's hero complex. As it turns out, the Doctor is even prompter than anticipated. He arrives on the scene just before the Second Great Human-Draconian War can begin, fighting to stop that conflict ever getting off the ground. The Master isn't particularly set on there being a war, but he has to pretend just to keep up appearances. He has to keep on pretending, even once he's got the Doctor and Jo Grant as captives.

The Master wants to give up his allegiance with the Daleks right then and there, just take his prisoners back to his own TARDIS, deliver Jo safely home—the Doctor would never forgive the Master hurting her, and truth be told he rather likes the girl—and fly off with the Doctor as his permanent guest. But there's a plan. The Master has, he admits, something of a weakness for plans. And if he pulls this off _just_ right, maybe he can be the Doctor's rescuer, instead of his kidnapper. Maybe he can take the Doctor with him voluntarily, instead of as a prisoner. And so he sticks Jo and the Doctor in the brig of his stolen Earth prison ship, and retires to the bridge with a book. The Doctor took to sending him Wells novels, when the Master was imprisoned at UNIT, and, while the Master would much rather have had visits, he admits they aren't _bad_ , per se.

Of course, the Master keeps the video feed to the Doctor's cell open all the time. He's mostly able to tune out his prisoners' inane babble. Surprisingly, it's a speech of Jo's that finally does capture his attention.

"I really think you ought to be a bit more reasonable with the Master. I mean, he keeps offering you a share in the galaxy, or whatever's going on, and you keep refusing and playing dirty tricks on him. But, you see, the trouble is with you, is, well, you're so _stiff-necked_. I mean, you've got to realize that this time the Master has won. You might as well make the best out of a terrible situation. I mean, look at it now. Here we are..."

The Master smiles as he turns down the volume. Yes, he decides. He really does like that girl, after all.

After nearly four hundred years of his sainted husband doing him wrong, the Master thinks it's very nice to have _someone_ on his side.

*

As it turns out, Jo was only monologuing to distract the Master during the Doctor's escape attempt. On the other hand, she could have chosen any subject whatsoever, so she still gets credit for recognizing the Doctor's shoddy treatment of his Master. And anyway, the Doctor's escape doesn't work, not really. True, they _all_ get themselves captured by Draconians, but it wasn't the Doctor's doing, so the Master doesn't need to feel defeated. And when the Doctor does manage to avert the Master's lovely war after all, and the Master has to make a break for the planet of the Ogrons, he's still got the Doctor's TARDIS, _and_ Jo Grant in tow. The game is far from over yet.

It all works out precisely as it's supposed to. The Doctor follows Jo. The Master summons in the Daleks. The Master proceeds to save the Doctor's skin, convincing the Daleks to let him live in the Master's custody. Now the Master will just have to make the Doctor see that this was all for his own good, from the very beginning—the Daleks would have caught him sooner or later, and the Master has saved him from their brutal mock-justice. Only think of the time and effort the Master has put into rescuing him! All the Master has to do is wait for the best moment to make an escape from the Daleks. He'll wait for the Daleks to leave, off to their invasion, and then he'll grab the Doctor, their two TARDISes, and Jo, and that will be that. Problem solved. Mission accomplished.

The Master has just seen the last of the Daleks off this miserable planet when one of the Ogrons comes babbling something about a Dalek ordering him to open the prisoners' cell. Damn! Can't the Doctor stay captured for just _five minutes_ , just _once_? The Master heads straight for the Doctor's TARDIS, prepared to head him off, collecting Ogrons for backup as he goes. He arrives not a moment too soon.

"Going somewhere, Doctor?"

"You know, you really are _incredibly_ persistent, aren't you?" asks the Doctor, blatantly annoyed.

The Master's hypnosound machine—a far more biddable version of the Keller device—is in the Doctor's hand, clearly stolen by Miss Grant when the Master permitted her her own little trip out of that cell earlier. "That is my property, I believe."

"Oh yes—yes, a most ingenious device. I congratulate you."

The Master thinks, later, how appropriate and how terrible it is, that the Doctor should use that particular adjective, 'ingenious.' The Master has used that very word of this Doctor so many times. He admires his Doctor's resource very much, no matter how inconvenient it may be for him personally. But it's the Doctor's resource at that very moment that ensures they'll never see each other again in these forms. Because the Doctor presses the button on the hypnosound device, leaving the Master's Ogrons clutching their heads and whimpering in terror, and suddenly all hell breaks loose.

The Doctor and his companion are rushing for the TARDIS. The Ogrons are rushing about in terror, the stupid brutes, trying wildly to escape that sound. And one of them grabs the Master by the arm, the same arm in which the Master is holding his staser.

He doesn't mean to shoot. He swears he doesn't mean to. The Master watches in horror as that bolt hits home, and then he's being dragged away, trapped inside a stampeding crowd of Ogrons. He only just manages to watch the Doctor fall, sick dark heat welling up in his stomach. No. No! Not the Doctor! The Master fights, but there's no getting back through that brutish crowd of dark, hairy limbs. But he has to get back to his Doctor! He has to know that the Doctor is all right. He _can't_ be dead. The Master is _sure_ he would feel it. He doesn't think the intensity on his staser is set high enough to kill a Time Lord, but the Doctor took that shot right in the middle of the forehead, the worst possible place, and the Master doesn't know. He doesn't know, and the Doctor will need help, and he has to get back...

"WHAT IS GO-ING ON HERE?"

The Master freezes. What are the Daleks doing back? Surely they _had_ all left? But clearly not—there are a full dozen of the deadly creatures in the corridor in front of him, and—insofar as a Dalek can look anything at all—none of them look happy.

"It's..." the Master stammers. "A little trouble with the prisoners. The...the Doctor was attempting to..."

"THE DOC-TOR?" screeches a Dalek. "WHERE IS THE DOC-TOR?"

"We were attempting to recapture him, but he..."

"WHICH WAY DID HE RUN?"

"This way...towards his TARDIS..." The Master is running back down the corridor, not at all certain the Daleks won't run him over and keep going if he gets in their way. They arrive just in time to hear the last screech of the Doctor's TARDIS as it flies away.

All twelve Dalek eyestalks swivel towards the Master. "YOU HAVE AL-LOWED THE DOC-TOR TO ES-CAPE," screams one, its base turning back and forth, dancing with rage.

"YOU HAVE BE-TRAYED THE DA-LEKS," says another.

"YOU HAVE HELPED THE DOC-TOR TO GET A-WAY!"

"No!" gasps the Master. "It was the Ogrons, those incompetent..."

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE!" shrieks a Dalek.

There is a very, _very_ bright flash of blue light, and the Master screams. And then there's an equally bright flash of gold, and the Master feels himself regenerating for the last time.

The Daleks stand stunned for a moment. "DA-TA MAT-CHES IN-FOR-MA-TION ON SPE-CIES 'TIME LORDS,'" says one, finally. "THE PRO-CESS KNOWN AS RE-GEN-ER-A-TION."

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE HIM A-GAIN," suggests a particularly clever specimen.

"NO!" corrects another. "BEFORE HE DIES, HE SHOULD BE IN-TER-RO-GA-TED. THE TIME LORDS HAVE MUCH KNOW-LEDGE. THEIR SEC-RETS WILL BE OURS. TAKE HIM A-WAY!" And suddenly a crowd of Ogrons have a hold of the Master, and are dragging him towards a cell.

"No!" the Master cries. "I'm your ally! I've been _helping_ you! I can find the Doctor! I can bring him to you, and..."

And then one of the Ogrons bashes the Master over the head, and he doesn't remember any more.


	6. Chapter 6

"YOU WILL TELL US A-BOUT THE DOC-TOR."

Normally, there are few subjects the Master likes more. But normally, he hasn't just regained consciousness strapped to a table in a Dalek interrogation room.

"Are you interested in his jam preferences? Because if that's what you're looking for, I'll gladly inform you that he was partial to redcurrant last thing I knew. Of course, these things tend to change from body to body, so I can't be absolutely certain he's retained that affinity."

"JAM IS IR-RE-LE-VANT TO THE AIMS OF THE DA-LEKS."

The Master snickers. "Oh, I wouldn't be so certain about that. What if the Doctor's planning a dastardly scheme to smear all your eyepieces with marmalade? You'd change your tune soon enough then."

"YOU ARE AT-TEMP-TING HU-MOR. THE DA-LEKS HAVE NO USE FOR HU-MOR. YOU WILL AN-SWER PLAIN-LY, OR WE WILL CAUSE YOU PAIN."

"What was the question, then?"

"WHAT DO YOU KNOW A-BOUT THE DOC-TOR?"

"We were friends in our schooldays. We're enemies now. We haven't been close in a very long time." Depressingly enough, every word of that is true.

"YOU ARE OF THE SAME RACE. AND YOU DO NOT BE-HAVE AS EN-EM-IES. YOU DID NOT EX-TER-MIN-ATE HIM WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE."

"You've had the chance many times, and there he is, walking around. Does that make you less than enemies?"

"THE DOC-TOR WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-AT-ED. HIS TRICKS WILL NOT A-VA-IL HIM FOR-EV-ER. YOU WILL TEACH US THE FIN-AL SEC-RETS OF TIME TRA-VEL, AND THEN HE WILL NO LON-GER BE AB-LE TO RUN FROM US."

"I hate to dampen your hopes, but I'm as much a time traveler as he is, and he's proved himself more than capable of running from me."

"HE WILL NOT E-VADE THE DA-LEKS. WE WILL FIND HIM, AND WE WILL..."

"...ex-ter-min-ate him. I know, I know. And to think, _I've_ being accused of having a one-track mind."

"YOU WILL TELL US THE DOC-TOR'S WEAK-NESS-ES. YOU WILL HELP US TO DES-TROY HIM."

"He's ticklish," says the Master. The Dalek who has been questioning him turns to the one standing beside the table to which the Master is bound. It brushes its manipulator arm against a control, and the Master chokes on a very loud scream as his nerve endings set themselves afire.

"YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. YOU WILL AN-SWER WITH-OUT LEV-I-TY."

"All right, Dalek," spits the Master. "I'll make this as clear as I can. Yes, I hate the Doctor. I despise him. I loathe him. But _I_ am the _only_ one who gets to loathe him, and I'm _certainly_ the only one who gets to kill him. I would _never_ have handed him over to you. He's _mine_. So if you could just get it through your ugly metal domes that I'm not going to be feeding you a single scrap of information that might hurt him, it'd save us all a lot of time."

The questioner turns to the control Dalek again, and the Master has just time enough before the pain comes again to resign himself to a very, very long imprisonment.

*

"DOES THE DOC-TOR HAVE AN-Y FAM-I-LY?"

"I don't know."

"SEN-SORS IN-DI-CATE UN-TRUTH. IN-CREASE STIM-U-LA-TION LEV-EL BY POINT FIVE."

"Ah, ahhh! All right, yes! But the only family he's got, he's hurt far worse than you could do. You won't get at him that way. He wouldn't lift a finger if it were his nearest kin here in your clutches. And I should bloody _know_."

*

The Master can feel the permanent changes the Daleks' torture is affecting in him. He's pretty certain that the way his bones seem to be curling in on themselves isn't just his imagination. He's going to have a spine like a question mark, which is a particularly disconcerting thought for a man who appreciates the value of deportment, the importance of knowing how to present oneself to the world. And this is his last self, the only one he's got. It's a terrifying concept that however they leave him, he'll be _stuck_ for the rest of his natural life.

For the first long while—the pain is enough to confuse even a Time Lord's sense of time—their questions are about the Doctor. He tells them the sorts of half-truths that their equipment can't pin down as lies, but avoids anything really important. The Master may have shot the Doctor when last they met, but he'd much rather die than let these monsters hurt him. Still, the Master has to admire them just a little, in the way of kindred spirits. He recognizes the way their metal voices screech up an octave when they talk about the Doctor. There is something personal in these creatures' hatred of his Doctor, and the Master can certainly respect that. But he's as jealous of their hatred as he would be of the opposite, because the Master knows better than anyone that hatred is as deep and as important as love, and he has no intention of permitting anyone else to share that bond with _his_ husband. And so the Master glories in the pain, embracing his martyrdom, his own noble willingness to suffer for what is his. And sometimes, when he isn't furious that the Doctor hasn't been along to rescue him, he thinks of the Doctor roaming free across the universe with something like pride, in feeling that that freedom is a thing of his own making.

After a time, once he's fed them a sufficient number of misleading or irrelevant truths, the Daleks seem to decide that they've learned all they ever will from him about their great enemy, and choose another subject. The Master doesn't think they actually have any intention of invading Gallifrey, not any time soon, but they're thorough machines, and what knowledge he has, they want. He doesn't mind telling them what he knows of the time bubble that protects his planet and the dome that shelters the Citadel. He never had cause to gain more than a general knowledge of Gallifrey's defenses, and anything he knows, they could find out from someone else, anyhow. That's how he feels when they start to mine his scientific expertise, as well. The Daleks are clearly trying to develop some form of levitation or flight, to counter the basic weakness posed by their limited mobility. The Master knows they'd have managed it long since if it weren't for their habit of exterminating every likely scientist they come across; the technology to permit them to hover is almost laughably basic. He's not about to volunteer information, but what questions they know enough to ask, he answers truthfully, and doesn't regret it.

Where he finds himself once again backed into a corner, however, is on the question of time travel.

It's not that the Master has ever cared about following the rules. That hasn't ever been him. But there are some kinds of conditioning that run so deep, some pieces of dogma drummed so incessantly into the Time Lord brain from such an early age, that even the Master doesn't disregard them without very serious thought. And the very deepest principle drilled into every Time Lord from loom to tomb is this: time belongs to _us_. The Master knows that there are empires from one side of the universe to the other that would ransom their children for ten generations to buy some of the secrets in his brain. He knows that selling out the knowledge of his people could bring him power beyond his dreams, for a little while. But even in his maddest, most ambitious, most power-starved moments, the Master has never so much as considered that road. He is a Time Lord. It's what makes him superior to every single organism in the universe. The Master thinks men who die for abstract ideas are almost always fools, but he knows that he's willing to give his life for this.

And the Daleks are willing to test him in that conviction.

*

The Master isn't certain he knows what anything but pain feels like, once the Daleks accept that he won't teach them how to build a TARDIS. Unfortunately for him, they aren't done yet.

One morning, when the Master has begun to feel that they're giving up on him, and to remember that there's still one thing worse than living like this, the Dalek who conducts his interrogations (recognizable by its voice; the Master has taken to calling it 'Gertrude' in his head, because he has to do _something_ for fun) rolls into the room with something dangling from its manipulator arm. The Master recognizes it with a sick feeling in his gut: it's a vortex manipulator, the primitive, dime-store attempt at a time travel device used by the human Time Agency in the fifth millennium. The things are fragile as crepe paper and finicky as cats, their accuracy is equivalent to that of a blind drunkard flinging darts at a board three counties away, and the ride is like being pushed through a strainer and then reassembled on the other side by a half-witted child who has no idea what you were like to begin with—and all that's when they're fresh from the box. This one has clearly been damaged almost to the point of complete destruction and then clumsily reconstructed. Even as a man who's spent the last Rassilon knows how long being tortured every way the Daleks can think of, he can say that he pities the poor sot who tries to travel time and space with _that_.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS?" asks Gertrude.

"A very poor choice of accessory for someone with your complexion?" the Master volunteers, and accepts his shock of punishment with only the tiniest noise of pain. He thinks the nerve damage must be very bad, now. He's grateful for that. He hardly feels the torture, compared to the way it was at the start.

"YOU HAVE BEEN DE-CLARED OF NO FUR-THER USE AS A SUB-JECT FOR IN-TER-RO-GA-TION," the Dalek announces. "OUR SCI-EN-TISTS BE-LIEVE THAT THIS DE-VICE IS CAP-A-BLE OF TRANS-PORT THROUGH TIME. IT WILL BE TES-TED ON YOU."

The Master had been afraid of that. "It'll kill me," he says hoarsely. "And you'll never see your toy again. State it's in now, it's as likely as not to send me into the Vortex and never bring me back. You'll lose your shiny, shiny bit of tech."

"ARE YOU CAP-A-BLE OF IM-PRO-VING ITS FUNC-TION?"

"Yes," the Master admits.

"THE POW-ER UN-IT WILL BE RE-MOVED. YOU WILL THEN BE GRAN-TED AC-CESS TO TOOLS. IF YOU CAN IM-PROVE THE DE-VICE, YOU WILL BOTH AID THE DA-LEKS AND IN-CREASE YOUR OWN CHAN-CES OF SUR-VI-VAL. THE CO-OR-DI-NATES WILL BE CHECKED BE-FORE THE DE-VICE IS TEST-ED, TO PRE-VENT TAM-PER-ING. BE WARNED THAT IF YOU TRY TO DES-TROY THE DE-VICE, WE HAVE AN-OTH-ER IN LESS STA-BLE CON-DI-TION. IF NE-CES-SARY, WE WILL TEST THAT ON YOU IN-STEAD."

"It seems as though your precautions have been very thorough," the Master grants, with what he means to sound like grudging respect. In reality, his hearts are hammering in his chest with the first real hope he's felt in all this while. Unbound, with access to tools, and a time travel device to boot—if he can't find some way of rescuing himself now, he doesn't deserve to get free.

They give him two days with a workshop and the vortex manipulator. Grudgingly, he does as they'd want him to, first, and simply improves the thing. It'll be no help getting free of them if he dies in the process. It's still too badly damaged for him to expect anything but an excruciating ride, but by the time he's done he's at least seventy percent certain it won't actually kill him, and he supposes that's as much reassurance as he's ever going to get. And once he's done that, he's got only a few hours to go about making a prison break of it.

The Master recognizes the coordinates programmed into the thing already. They've chosen to send him to their homeworld, Skaro, only a few minutes after he leaves. Given enough time, the Master could alter the thing sufficiently that it'd take him wherever he wants without betraying his intentions to the Daleks. But as it is, he can't manage to alter the spatial coordinates without the Daleks noticing. He's got to go to Skaro. It's only a matter of when.

In a move that he considers exceptionally ingenious, even for him, the Master manages to alter the entire system of temporal measurement upon which the vortex manipulator operates. It still displays precisely the same temporal destination that it always did, but he'll actually end up tens of thousands of years in the relative past, hopefully during an era when the Daleks were only primordial soup—or, at worst, earlier, less deadly prototypes of their current form. In any case, the time differential is sufficient that the Dalek race can't have been precisely the same then as now, and they can hardly have been _worse_ before.

At least, the Master thinks, as they strap the thing onto his arm and set it glowing, he most certainly hopes they weren't.

*

The Master has never liked the Vortex.

On their one and only voyage together, the first time either of them ever left Gallifrey, the Master had watched in horror as the Doctor nearly flung himself into that swirling light through their TARDIS's open door. The Doctor loves that bright chaos, but it reminds the Master too much of the Untempered Schism and the end of childish things. To the Doctor, the Vortex is all things freedom, but to the Master it's a physical representation of the constriction of age, the way life narrows and limits itself with the passage of time. The Vortex is the boundary of choices untaken and paths unfollowed, the container for all that is real and actualized. Pasts and futures have their roots here, and the Master has every intention of up-rooting both, to make way for the new past and future that his paradox will build. The Master and the Vortex are natural enemies.

As the Master travels through it with his cellotaped vortex manipulator, he thinks that the Vortex may be going just a little _too_ far in making that enmity clear.

The Master can actually feel his own skin sloughing away, as though he were a snake. The entire outer layer of him is being stripped off—not like zesting an orange, but like tearing its peel off completely. It's _agony_. If he weren't so desensitized by the Daleks' torture, the Master thinks it's quite probable that he would actually die of the pain, but as it is it's only enough to leave him so agonized he doesn't even want to call out, because the movement would inevitably make it even worse. It's so _bad_ that he goes past being unaware of time, and reaches the point of hyper-awareness; he numbers the nanoseconds that he's trapped in that swirling haze, cataloging them with all the obsessive devotion to order of an archaeologist with a pile of potsherds. And then finally, _finally_ , he is spat out at the other end, hits the ground hard, and the contact is so wildly, utterly horrific, and he screams and screams and screams and screams and _screams_.

*

It takes him an hour to gain any awareness of his surroundings. He's deep underground, in a storeroom of what seems to be some kind of military base. It takes him three hours after that to move anything but his staring eyes, and it's a full day before he manages to sit up. It's a week before he can stand up, and a week after that before he gets himself fed and watered and fully outfitted, cobbles together a sort of toga from a plain black sheet and a cloak from a fragment of burlap. The clothes hurt, but everything hurts, and he needs what little protection they can offer him. Once, he catches half a glimpse of his reflection in a shiny metal panel, and wishes he hadn't. He never saw this body's face as it originally was, but the thing that looks back at him now is a gargoyle, a grotesquerie. He refuses to associate himself with _that_. That isn't him. And then the panic overtakes him—he's going to die like this. He's going to die like _this_. This crumbling wreck of a so-called body can't possibly last. He's finished. He'll never build his paradox; he'll never save his Rose. He'll die alone, a horrible thing, a monster, without even the comfort of the Doctor by his side...

There is someone coming.

As fast as he can, the Master ducks behind a set of shelves, clumsily concealing himself. Moving with any kind of speed is horrifically painful, but in very small doses it's possible, now, and anyway, adrenaline and fear are a distraction from those melancholy thoughts of a moment ago. The Master gets himself out of sight just as the door to his refuge swings open. There is a loud rattling noise, clearly someone trying to open the metal cupboard on the other side of the room. And then there is an electronic hum as the cabinet is unlocked.

"Shh!" hisses a voice—the Master thinks it's female—as something tumbles to the floor.

"Useful," whispers another, and the Master could swear that the one of his hearts that has been left beating since his disastrous adventure in time travel stops. It _can't_ be. It's _impossible_. It's wishful thinking, mental lies. He's gone crazy. That voice _can't_ belong to the man he thinks it does. It doesn't matter what his senses are insisting. It's not even the same voice he remembers, though that's never stopped him recognizing the Doctor before. Slow as molasses, silent as the grave, the Master inches towards the edge of his shelf to peek around, as the voice grows louder and says, "Ah. Here's something rather more useful."

"They're explosives, aren't they?" asks the female voice

"Yes. Explosives and detonators." The Master is almost to the end of the row. He can almost see the owner of that voice. But it can't be the Doctor. It _can't_. "It seems almost providential."

"Why? What're you going to use them for?"

"The Time Lords..." And that's when the Master nearly falls over. Time Lords. It _is_ his Doctor. The Master manages to get his eyes around the edge of the shelf at last, and there he is. He's regenerated again: he's tall, now, with a mop of unruly brown curls and an absurd, enormous scarf, and he is undeniably and every inch the _Doctor_.

The Master wishes he still had tear ducts, so he could cry with relief. The Doctor is still speaking, but the Master is too dazed to listen, until a very unlikely word finishes the Doctor's speech: "Genocide."

"Genocide?" asks another male voice, one that hasn't spoken before.

"Yes. I'm going to kill everything in the incubation room. I'm going to destroy the Daleks forever." The Doctor stands solemn for a moment, and then says, "There's no time to lose. Come on."

No! The Doctor can't leave, not now! The Master tries to call out, and, when no sound emerges, tries to move. He manages one shuffling step, but it's too late for the Doctor to see him. The Doctor is already retreating down a corridor, and all the Master can think to do is follow. The Doctor is his way out of here. No matter how unpleasant the circumstances of their last parting, the Doctor is a compassionate man. He didn't choose his name for nothing. He'll make the Master better. He'll patch him back together. At very least, he'll take the Master away from this planet.

The Master shuffles along, towards the Doctor, pawing his way along the walls for what little support they can give him, cursing his own body all the while. Twice he has to press up against the walls as men in uniform dash through intersecting corridors, but fortunately they're all in a hurry, and haven't got time to notice him; these halls are brightly lit, and he'll have no chance to hide if anyone actually goes past him.

It takes him the better part of an hour to get only as far as the end of this corridor, the T-junction where it dead ends. He's just in time to watch the Doctor run past, pursued by a Dalek. The Master hasn't had time to decide what to do when the Doctor reaches the half-closed bulkhead at the other end of the hall. There are figures on the other side, human figures, tugging him through and safe from the killing machine pursuing him. But the Doctor looks back as he's squeezing through that door, and his gaze catches, for the tiniest possible moment, on the Master.

The Doctor's eyes widen. His lips part. And then he's being pulled through that bulkhead, and, the moment he's through, the entire corridor explodes.

*

The Master, in his side corridor, is protected from the actual force of the blast. That isn't the trouble. The trouble is, there was a map in the Master's storeroom, and he knows that the Doctor has just cut off the only exit. The Master is trapped in an underground base, in a body that's falling apart, and behind him he hears...

"HALT!"

That seems a ridiculous command to the Master, as he's been standing perfectly still anyhow.

"TURN A-ROUND."

The Master takes a long time about complying with that one, not because he's trying to be disobedient, but because this body isn't ever going to chose fast over slow if it can help it. And the delay gives him time to consider his options, none of which look good.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, MU-TANT?"

The Master tries to speak, but all that results is an uneasy wheeze.

"SPEAK!"

The Master tries again, with similar results.

"SPEAK NOW, OR YOU WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-AT-ED!"

This is bloody hopeless. The Master tries to gesture, to indicate that he cannot talk, but the Dalek simply swivels up its weapons arm.

"THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. TELL ME..."

The Master glances down at the vortex manipulator still on his arm. He can't imagine using _that_ again. But on the other hand, he's trapped in this base, and about to be shot by a Dalek, with no regenerations left. The vortex manipulator will only _probably_ kill him.

"...OR YOU WILL BE..."

If the Master could sigh, he would. As it is, he just shuts his eyes tight, presses down on the controls of the manipulator, and prays to every deity he's never believed in anyhow.

*

This time, the trip through the Vortex is so bad that he actually loses consciousness from sheer pain, and part of him is grateful for that. The only trouble is that if he'd been awake, he might have been able to direct himself somehow. As it is, when he finally wakes up, what he thinks may be as much as a week later, he isn't on Gallifrey—and he's in even worse shape than when he left. He's not absolutely certain he can move, and he seems to have lost his eyelids this time, and possibly his ears. The fact that he's alive at all makes no sense. He has no idea how he survived this, but since he has, he intends to go on doing so.

The Master has no idea what this planet is he's stuck on. He only knows that there's not enough red in his (severely limited) vision for this to be Gallifrey, and that apparently the atmosphere isn't toxic. He tries to take a deep breath of it, and ends up provoking a terrible coughing fit that hurts so much it almost hurtles him back to unconsciousness, and brings up spongy little flecks of what seem to be his lungs. Oh, _brilliant_ , the Master thinks—he's falling apart inside, as well as out. He needs medical attention, immediately if not sooner. Whatever is keeping him alive, the Master can't depend on it continuing to be so obliging.

"Help," he tries to call. There is almost no sound, but for his trouble he gets more coughing, more pain, and more fragments of his insides. "Help," he tries again, and this time there's a bit of a gurgle. The Master wishes he could close his eyes, to concentrate, and he can't even do _that_. There isn't a word for the horror of this, but he thinks maybe he'll coin one if he survives. Then again, he probably won't. If he survives, this isn't something he'll ever want to think of again.

If he can't move and he can't talk, the Master has no idea what he can do but die. It takes him a long, long while to realize what ought to have occurred to him immediately, and when it does he thinks he's clearly been spending far too much time among primitive species. His body isn't all he has. He has a mind, and, as he's a Time Lord, that's saying rather a lot. Without physical contact, he can't forge any very complete mental bond with anyone. But he may be able to send out psychic waves, like ripples in a pond, loud enough to attract any sensitive mind within a given area—perhaps as far as a few hundred miles. It's not a very good chance, but much better than nothing. It's worth a try.

The Master doesn't know how long it is that he remains like that—face-down, unseeing, clearly far from civilization, screaming psychically as loud as he can. He thinks it must be months, because his range grows slowly larger and larger as he flexes his psychic muscles. However long it is, he just keeps calling and calling, neither in hope nor despair, but because it is quite simply the only thing he can do. The only other thing he can think of is the pain, and between those two his mind is too full for any other idea. He only calls and calls, and hurts, and calls.

And one day, something changes. Because one day, someone comes.

"Hello? Is someone there?" It's a polished, elegant, sophisticated voice—and speaking Gallifreyan, of all things. Until the man touches him, the Master can't have a proper mental conversation. But he intensifies and directs the psychic pulses he's been sending out, leading the Time Lord to him, assuring him that there is something to find.

"There's someone alive there, isn't there? Can't you speak?"

If he could speak, doesn't this imbecile think he'd have already tried it? The Master attempts one of those gurgling noises that were a moderate success however long ago it was. It's even less of a moderate success now, when his body has grown dehydrated on top of everything else. But it's _some_ noise, and the man looking for him seems to hear it, because the sound of his steps turns in the Master's direction.

"Ah, I see you now." A hand settles on the Master's shoulder, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to whimper with pain.

 _More gently, if you could._ The Master thinks he should be snapping, but he's gone past the point of annoyance or unhappiness, so far beyond any normal bad feeling that his instinctive good manners have kicked back in.

 _Pardon._ The pressure of that hand lessens somewhat, though it's still enough to intensify his constant pain.

 _Please, can you get me to a TARDIS? Somewhere with a proper medical bay?_

 _Of course, of course. I'm going to turn you over now._

 _I'm not certain that's..._

They scream in unison: the Master with pain, and the man who, he can now see, has grey hair and the sort of features one might expect on a senator of Ancient Rome, with terror.

"Rassilon's balls," the Time Lord swears, starting up and backing away, "what _happened_ to you?"

The Master can't answer, now they're not in contact any longer. But he can see, for the first time in months. This man doesn't look like the sort to be easily shaken, and yet clearly he's scared nearly out of his wits.

When the Master doesn't move, the other Time Lord inches nearer. Slowly, very slowly, he lays a hand on the Master's arm.

 _Bad vortex manipulator_ , says the Master, as calmly as he can, in answer to the man's last question. _And torture before that. I am called the Master._

 _I...Goth. Chancellor Goth._

 _Chancellor? Quite an honor, being rescued by so exalted a personage._

"Not for long," Goth mutters aloud.

And there it is: the Master's opening. His mind may be rusty, but his instincts don't fail.

 _No? How unfortunate. It must be frustrating, facing the loss of so much power. I know what that feels like._

 _Yes. Yes, I'm afraid it is._ The innocuous nature of the conversation seems finally to strike Goth, and he shakes his head. _I'm sorry. You need medical attention. I'll go fetch a hoverstretcher, and be with you in a moment._

 _Thank you,_ the Master agrees. And as Goth is walking away, in despite of the pain, the Master almost makes an attempt at a smile.

A Time Lord, with ambitions. No matter how dire the Master's situation may be, it did just get a vast deal more interesting.

*

There is only so much even the most advanced science in the universe can do for the Master now. Because Time Lord bodies are built to withstand so much, they aren't well suited to being patched-up. Humans have long since developed synthetic skin that could make the Master look practically normal again, if he were human himself, but his body rejects the grafts as an intrusion, and he's left right back where he started. His muscles respond a bit better; he can move, now, a bit shakily but reliably. And he can talk again, which is a tremendous relief, and breathe easy without coughing up his insides.

But there's only so much that can be done about the pain. He hurts _all the time_. His bones hurt, and his muscles hurt, and the surface of his body, where skin ought to be, aches and smarts and stings and _screams_ for covering. He clings to the tattered rags of the clothing he fashioned for himself in the Dalek base, but has those garments lined with silk, to minimize the discomfort of contact. He feels that method of dress completely appropriate to what he is now: a genius mind, trapped inside a hideous shell.

The mental exercise that had kept the Master focussed and alive during his time on Terserus—that, he learns, is the name of the planet upon which he was trapped—proves essential almost immediately. Chancellor Goth's brain isn't weak, but he's hardly ever left the Citadel, and it's only too easy for the Master to ensnare his mind, capture his obedience. He orders Goth to take the Master back to Gallifrey, and build him a secret haunt in the lower levels, where he won't be found. And then the Master goes about fashioning a plan.

The Master hasn't got time to fiddle with his Device any longer. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. He has no idea what's keeping him alive, but he's got to make the best of his time. Enough pussyfooting. Straight to the point.

A TARDIS Heart could power a paradox, if properly harnessed. But every TARDIS Heart is fueled by the Eye of Harmony. Anything a Heart can do, the Eye can do a thousand times better. And so the Master will just have to use that, then. It should even have power enough left over to patch his body back together, or give him a new one. It's an experiment well worth trying, whatever the cost.

The location of the Eye is a closely-guarded secret, hidden for millennia—which is to say, it takes the Master a whole week to reason it out. And he almost wants to laugh, when he realizes that he'll need the presidential regalia, of all things, to access it. He doesn't actually want to laugh, because this self never does. But almost.

The Master's choice to involve the Doctor in his plan isn't a matter of instinct. Nor is it because he wants to see the man again. He doesn't. It's the Doctor's fault he's this way. It's the Doctor's fault he's trapped in this rotting, stinking, festering _pustule_ of a form, that he can _feel_ and _smell_ his flesh melting and calcifying at once, that Death is sneering, sneering, sneering at him any time he gets close to a mirror. His own face is the grinning skeleton of mortality, and he cannot wake up. He's trapped in the most horrible, grotesque nightmare imaginable, and he _cannot wake up_. What has he done that was so bad as to deserve this? What has he ever done but loved his family, and wanted the best for them? And what has it gained him? In less time than a single one of his bodies ought to have lasted, he has gone through twelve, and his thirteenth is so eager to die that it's eating itself from the inside out.

He _won't_ let it. He _won't_ give in. He is more stubborn than the entire universe, more stubborn than death itself. There was once an enchanter named Koschei the Deathless, who hid his soul in a needle in an egg in a duck in a rabbit in a chest buried beneath a tree. There was once a Time Lord named Koschei the Master, who hid his soul in the hearts of a worthless betrayer who would never think to even go looking. Mortality cannot catch him, because he has a job to do. He has a paradox to build. He has a daughter to save, and death _cannot touch him_. It may have one or the other of them at once. The minute, the very _second_ he brings Rose back, then he is allowed to die. But he hasn't done it yet, and so he forces himself alive through sheer bile. Sugar may be an excellent preservative, but vinegar is a better one. The Master cannot stop hating, and therefore he cannot stop breathing. If he hates with every cell of his body, he may stay in one piece.

The Doctor could have saved him on Skaro, and look how that turned out. And _that's_ the point. The Doctor has done so many things to require the Master's forgiveness, in all these years, and the Master _has_ forgiven him, up to now. But not this time. Not anymore. The Master doesn't have any room to forgive, now. He's grown cold and calloused, in every sense, and he's in pain _all the time_. And it's the Doctor's fault the Master ended up in the Daleks' clutches to begin with, and the Doctor's fault for not rescuing the Master when he had the chance, and the Master has every right to be angry about those things. All he seems to feel, now, is angry and in pain, and some vaguely sane corner of the Master's brain informs him that those won't be the right things to feel once he's built his paradox. He'll want to be happy and hopeful, then. He'll need to do something to deal with this absolute hatred that's growing in him all the time, this loathing of the Doctor that expands in perfect proportion with the Master's loathing of himself. Otherwise, he won't even be able to look at the younger Doctor, when he heads back into the past to build his own younger self a perfect life. The Master isn't at all certain what he'd do to that seemingly innocent young Doctor, knowing now, as he does, what treacheries the man is capable of. The Master isn't even sure that Doctor would be _safe_ in his presence. The Master hates, so very much. That's a good thing now, but he'll have to do something to defuse his rage before he goes back into that innocent world. And he knows just the thing.

He's going to kill the Doctor.

He's going to see _this_ timeline's Doctor humiliated and hurt and dying, just the way the Master is himself. He's going to repay his Doctor in kind for all the pain he's feeling himself. And it'll all be to save the younger Doctor, the one with Theta's face. He'll kill the older, treacherous Doctor, so he can rescue his sweet young husband, and his innocent younger self, and their beautiful, beautiful daughter. This timeline's Doctor is going to cease to exist, anyway, once the Master's paradox is complete. And the Master needs to get this violence out of him. He needs an outlet for the venom building and building and building inside him. He needs to _hurt_. He _hates_ this Doctor, he _hates_ him, and he's going to see him _dead_. He can love the Doctor again, once he's dead. That makes sense, doesn't it? It must. It must make sense, because it's the only thing the Master can think of, except for the pain. Pain, and revenge, and his paradox—those are the only three ideas in the Master's head. He'll be cruel to be kind. Kill the Doctor to save him. But Rassilon, the _agony_ , the neverending _pain_...

*

Later, much later, once the Master has a proper body again, he'll be stunned by how nearly the assassination plot came to succeeding. He'd been completely mad when he concocted it, and in spite of all that it had very, very nearly worked. He'd almost managed to maneuver his puppet, Goth, into the presidency, and frame the Doctor for the last president's murder, and get his own hands on the Eye. And even when the Doctor stopped him at the last moment, the Master had at least managed to make an escape, in spite of his battered body. He'd got himself as far as Goth's TARDIS, ready to make a strategic retreat.

It was only then that he had found himself truly in trouble.

*

The Master is shocked when he enters Goth's TARDIS to find that its interior is nothing like what he remembered. Goth's tastes had run to the expensive and ornate—marble and mahogany and jade—but this place is stark and black and utilitarian. It hasn't even got a proper console, just a bank of controls on the wall near the door.

It takes the Master's battered brain longer than it ought to realize what's going on here. Goth is dead, and this TARDIS is bonded to his Imprimatur. It'll be in lock-down mode, running on emergency protocols. But the Master can't very well leave this TARDIS to try and find another, not without being caught by the Chancellery Guard. Every second he stays on Gallifrey is a surer guarantee of capture, even now he's safely locked inside this TARDIS. The Master has to get away from here, however this hobbled TARDIS will consent to permit him.

The precautions that lock a TARDIS upon the death of its pilot are one of many examples of the Time Lords' obsessive devotion to protecting their secrets. Generally speaking, the Master approves of those precautions. He doesn't want a mass of ignorant primitives discovering an abandoned TARDIS and gaining a foothold in the Vortex any more than the next Gallifreyan. In this particular case, however, the paranoia of his people is a significant stumbling block. A locked TARDIS _can_ access the Vortex, because once upon a time it occurred someone in a position of power that a Time Lord in a TARDIS might someday need to make an escape from whatever it was that killed said TARDIS's owner. But that access is very severely limited. Via the Vortex, the Master can travel to Gallifrey—where he already is, and doesn't want to return—or to an emergency safe-point, an empty space far from any star or planet. Those two options are considered sufficient to protect any Time Lord trapped in a locked-down TARDIS, and the Master supposes they would be, if only he weren't a fugitive from his own people. As it is, the only place he's got to go is the middle of nowhere—but it's better than staying here. He engages the controls and makes his emergency jump, materializing in a sea of blackness relieved only by the pinprick brightness of distant stars.

From here, the Master has very few options. He can wait, try to find an unobtrusive moment to jump back to Gallifrey, but they'll be watching closely for this TARDIS for a very, very long time. Even if he bides his time for years before heading home, it isn't likely he could manage to get his hands on a better, fully-functional TARDIS. If he goes to Gallifrey, all that waits for him is imprisonment and quite probably death. No, he has to get himself _somewhere_ else, and he has to manage that feat without the ability to jump through space and time. Without Vortex access, the Master is limited by the laws of this universe: he can only travel as fast as the speed of light, and his instruments tell him he's a hundred light-years from the nearest inhabited planet. It's a place he's never heard of, a smallish world called Traken, seat of an empire of the same name.

The Master pulls up the entry on Traken in this TARDIS's databanks, and reads, with scorn, about this little paradise, haven of harmony. It sounds like the very last place the Master would ever want to be, however much he needs safety and peace just now. But then his eye catches on a paragraph about something called the Source, and suddenly he's much, much more interested.

It'll take him a century to get there, the Master thinks with a sigh, but heading somewhere is better than sitting still. If he were in a proper TARDIS, he'd even have plenty to do. Unfortunately, however, lock-down mode doesn't only affect navigation. This TARDIS has a bedroom, a medical bay, a bathroom, a galley, and a console room—that's all, and each as utilitarian as the last. There's no laboratory or workshop to build a new version of his Device, no library for research, no space for recreation or enjoyment. If the Master stays conscious all that time, with nothing to focus on but his own pain, no one to talk to, nothing to do, he'll be a dribbling, jabbering madman by the time he sees another living face. Clearly, 'awake' is not his best option.

There will be certain advantages, he supposes, to putting himself into a coma, even though it will mean losing a hundred of the few precious years he still has left. His body is damaged too badly to ever properly heal, but he'd bet that a full century of energy devoted to nothing but healing will make for _some_ improvement in his condition by the time he wakes up. Perhaps at some point in the process his eyelids might regrow; he can't express what a relief even so small a change as that would be. He's so _tired_ of hurting, of hating, of clinging to life. He's been through so much. And maybe he won't even dream of the Doctor. Maybe he won't dream of killing him. Maybe in his sleep, he won't remember that his body could once feel not only pain, but pleasure, and how much he craves that pleasure again. Maybe he'll be able to pass a full hundred years feeling neither love nor hate—only peace.

The Master doesn't dream of anything at all, and it's the best hundred years he's had in a very, very long time.

*

When Goth's TARDIS wakes the Master, a few minutes before it's due to land on Traken, he's not only got eyelids, but ears, and lips, and fingernails. And he can move almost smoothly, and walk almost normally, and, most miraculous of all, he can think of occasions before he got into this body when he'd hurt more than he does right now. Only a few occasions, true, but nevertheless.

It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do. Or 36,500-odd nights and days of sleep, if one happens to have them to spare.

*

The Master anticipates that he'll be able to get to work the moment he hits ground on Traken. It ought to be easy, in this eternally peaceful society, for a sufficiently ruthless man to accomplish absolutely anything he likes. What he's forgotten is that 'peaceful' doesn't necessarily mean ill-defended.

The Master's landing place, he soon learns, is called the Melkur Grove, and it's equipped with protections the likes of which the Master didn't even know _existed_. He didn't think there was a force in the universe that could immobilize a TARDIS, and lock him inside to boot. The Master is far more trapped than he was during his formal imprisonment on Shada, and he's got no idea how it happened, or what to do about it.

Then the girl starts visiting.

Her name, she tells him, as she lays her flowers at his TARDIS's feet, is Kassia; he, apparently, is something called a 'Melkur.' His TARDIS—which has taken on the form of a stone statue, the Master's viewscreens for its eyes—informs him that this is the local word for the evils of the wider world. He, it seems, is the Trakenites' idea of evil incarnate. There was a time in the Master's life when he would have resented that assessment, but just now he is almost proud of it. If by evil they mean more concerned with ends than means, then they're quite right. The Master is focused on his End, now, and nothing will ever distract him again.

Even though he can no longer work on his Device—no precision in his fingers, no sharpness in his mind, and no laboratory, anyhow—he thinks of his paradox constantly, every second. He curses his own dilettante of a twelfth self, running around after the Doctor when he ought to have been working all the time. This self, this last one, is focused. He's going to bring his daughter back, and he's got a plan to make it happen.

Once he gets out of this TARDIS, the first thing to do is acquire himself a new body, a _real_ body. He cannot die. He _refuses_ to die. He's going to live on, in a newer, better form. And he knows just what kind of body he wants.

The Master is going to find a man with a loving spouse, a beautiful and brilliant daughter, and near-infinite power within his grasp. That's the body he intends to take. He'll steal that life, and everything that goes with it. And if it's murder, he'll be doing the man a favor. That kind of existence can't last. It's only a kindness, to kill a man who has everything, before the wheel of fortune turns, and leaves him alone, alone, all alone, and falling apart, and dying. It's better to die happy. To die miserable is the worst possible fate, and the Master _won't_.

Pride has been his besetting sin all this time, the Master realizes. He's been so determined that _his_ Device should be the thing to give him back his Rose. But paradoxes are not the only way of changing the universe. The Source of the Traken Union, tremendous though it may be, is not strong enough to power a real paradox. With it, the Master will not be able to set back the entire universe to the way it was, as he has always planned. But he _will_ be able to rescue his Rose, because with such power at his fingertips, the Master need not fear the usual retribution that comes of temporal alteration. The Reapers may try as they like, but he shall destroy them; the Time Lords may rage and storm, but he will beat them back. Even though Time itself may take objection—as it often does to unauthorized meddling—the Master is confident that he can defend his own. Once he has the Source, he will repair his TARDIS, go back in time to the day of the accident, and take his daughter with him, on his TARDIS, far away from the explosion that is meant to kill her. It's not as elegant a solution as a paradox would be, not as neat, not as safe. But it's much better than letting her stay dead. And the Master will use that same power to bind the Doctor to him, _forcing_ his wayward husband to remain where he belongs. The Source can do all that. Even if it's not the perfect life the Master once envisioned, it's so much better than reality. If he cannot save the ones he loves, he'll steal them, instead. It's for their own good. It's for all of their good.

The Master's goals are ambitious ones, to be sure. And all he's got to achieve them with are a flimsy imitation of a TARDIS, a flimsy imitation of a body, and the unexpected devotion of a single young Trakenite girl.

That's more than enough.

*

For fifteen years, the Master is the Melkur of Traken. For fifteen years, Kassia visits him every day, and for fifteen years, he uses what little psychic sway he can exert without physical contact, or even eye contact, to nudge her life in all the proper directions. And fifteen years later, he sees her as a consul, one of the five most important people on this world—and only just wedded to a perfect man with a perfect daughter who will soon become the Master's key to the perfect power of the Source.

Sometimes, the Master cannot believe that this universe is large enough to contain such genius as his own. And sometimes, it seems, the universe cannot believe it either, because it doesn't seem to be large enough to contain two separate Time Lords in two separate orbits, even at the moments when they both want it that way. The lilliputian character of this universe of theirs seems the only possible explanation for the fact that a very particular blue police box just _happens_ to materialize _twenty feet_ from the Master's TARDIS within _hours_ of his plan coming to fruition.

The Doctor is still in that same exaggerated body as when last they met, with yet another of his useless human toys trailing along after him like a duckling on a string. Seeing him again, now the Master's own head is a century clearer, is...confusing. The Master still wants to see the Doctor dead, doesn't he? Surely he must. Why wouldn't he? The Doctor hasn't done anything to earn the Master's forgiveness in this century. The Master _must_ still hate him. Except that that isn't the plan anymore, is it? The Master can hardly keep track. Was he at killing, or capturing? Does he want the Doctor's hide, or does he just want the Doctor? It's so hard to know. He's forgotten how muddled the world becomes when the Doctor is in it. Ten minutes ago things were so simple, and now the Master is watching a burgundy coattail disappear with feverish devotion, and he can't even sort out the contents of his own brain.

Once the Doctor is fully out of his sight, it gets a little easier. The Master has to focus. He can't let this put a dent in his all-important plan. This really is his last chance, he knows it is. That healing coma helped, but even so, this body _is_ dying. Try as he will, the Master can't put it off forever. A new body is the first thing. Every other consideration is outweighed by that. And as he's got no _natural_ way to exchange this body for another, he'll need to force the change, some way or another. That will mean power, and _that_ will mean the Source. Even the Doctor comes second to the Source, for now.

Fortunately, the Master's original scheme is flexible. The Doctor's presence necessitates only a minor change of plan. The Master had planned that his faithful Kassia should bring her husband, Tremas, to him. Tremas of Traken is nominate to the Keepership, which is to say that, any hour now, the Source will pass into his control. If the Master can bring Tremas under his psychic sway, his job will be finished. But before Kassia can fulfill his order (in spite of the control collar that has made her every inch the Master's slave), the Doctor gets his hands on Tremas. They come wandering into the Master's own grove together, looking for the Doctor's TARDIS, which the Master has hidden. The Doctor and Tremas are standing too close, cozy, talking about technology, bonding over science. And when Tremas says something brilliant the Doctor smiles at him, bright and unrestrained.

It's a relief, almost. The Master's emotions where the Doctor is concerned are usually so complicated, such a mess of lust and guilt and fear and anger and need and affection and loathing. _This_ , on the other hand, is just as strong, but purer—jealousy in unadulterated form. The Master has been toying for a long while with the notion that Tremas's body might be the one he wants, and now the man's destruction is assured. There had been something in the Doctor's smile that was so like the way he used to look at his Master, once, when they were young, and loved each other, and the world was good. Tremas had _no right_ to that smile. He's going to die for the privilege.

And someday the Doctor will look at the Master with that kind of happiness again.

*

It's almost too easy, getting the Source, after that. It's simple, now that the Master's head is so ruthlessly clear. He plays the politics of the situation, until Kassia becomes Keeper Nominate in place of her husband, and it isn't a moment too soon. The old Keeper of Traken dies, beneath a sky full of omens and portents. The moment Kassia is in the Keeper's chair, the Master's Melkur-TARDIS is free to take her place, and the Source is his.

He mends his TARDIS first, binding it to his own Imprimatur, making it truly his. He has finally learned the importance of having an escape route, and this time he isn't taking any chances. And then he gives himself the power to claim a new body by touch alone. It's not an ability native to the Time Lord race, transferring one's consciousness into a stolen form, but the Source can make it so. Next on the agenda is seeing to it that the Doctor cannot take away this power, now the Master's got it; the Master still hasn't left his TARDIS, and the Doctor doesn't even know who he is yet, but stopping him is the sort of thing the Doctor _would_ do anyway. The Master destroys the plans for the Source manipulator, and then his power is secure.

There's only one thing left to do on Traken.

The Doctor and Tremas are in the presence chamber, traditional throne room of the Keeper, when the Master's TARDIS materializes there. They're practically cuddling, and, when the Master's dramatic arrival lands them on the floor, across the room, the Doctor actually goes so far as to hold Tremas's hand. This has all gone on _quite_ long enough.

"Now then, Doctor, let's have you closer, shall we?"

With the Source, the Master can make it so. The Doctor approaches the Master's throne because he _has_ to, because he _cannot_ run away any longer. The Master doesn't know the last time he experienced such a rush.

"On your knees, Doctor," he purrs, because he cannot help himself, and laughs when the sheer force of his will makes it so. Oh, this is _good_. Maybe the Master will stay in this body for just a little bit longer, no matter how much he hates it. And he'll certainly let the Doctor live a little while yet. Only _think_ of the ways he can humiliate his Doctor now, make him pay for every wrong he's ever done.

The Master indulges in just a little banter, inflicts his control on Tremas, ties up a few loose ends. And then he comes to the point. "You still do not know me, Doctor?" The Doctor's look is blank. "But none of this will matter, when I control the deeper mysteries of time."

"All this, and that too? How do you propose to manage that?"

"Through the resources of the Keepership...and through you, Doctor." The more the Master thinks of it, the more he believes that there must be _some_ way to get a proper paradox from all this, after all. The Source will be a way of buying time, that's all. It will give the Master access to every resource he could need to see his Device completed. And that includes the Doctor's not inconsiderable technical genius. "The knowledge will be taken from you atom by atom. And what is left of you, the husk of your body... That will also have its uses."

And finally, finally, the Master calls the Doctor into his TARDIS, and lets them meet each other face to face.

*

"Of course," says the Doctor. It's as well the Master knows him very, very well, or he wouldn't hear the sadness beneath the bluster. "The Master."

They don't talk more than they need to. The Master tells the Doctor as much as he needs to know about his plan, and the Doctor offers wry comments when he's given the proper cues. But they don't play the way they used to do. They come to the point.

"I am now nearing the end of my twelfth regeneration," the Master says, a thing they both know full well already.

"Then that is the end for a Time Lord," the Doctor points out, an equally obvious fact.

"But not for the Keeper of Traken. With my new powers, _anything_ is possible." The Master laughs, circles his Doctor, cackling. " _Yes_." He won't touch the Doctor's skin. He won't give the Doctor a chance to get inside his head just yet. But he reaches up and toys with one of the Doctor's curls. "I shall enjoy full mobility once again."

He can do anything he likes. Oh, _anything_ to his Doctor, frozen here, unable even to _move_ except at his Master's command. The Master is just reaching his arms over the Doctor's shoulders when a noise from his console alerts the Master that something is wrong.

"The Source!" he gasps, rushing over to the controls. "Someone has tampered with the power of the Source!"

No, no! Those _imbecilles_! How can they possibly have managed to... The Master's TARDIS is afire, the controls exploding, and all that beautiful power is slipping away, and the Doctor is escaping. The Master has to disengage, separate himself from the Source _now_ , or else this reversal of power will kill him. It's like cutting off his own arm, but the Master does it, and then jumps his TARDIS to the far side of the Trakenite throne room, while the commotion of the Source can still cover up the sound of materialization.

This plan may not precisely have succeeded. But on the other hand, the Master's planning was thorough enough that he'll have got what he absolutely needed from this little adventure. His TARDIS is fully functional. And he _is_ going to settle his score with Tremas of Traken. It's especially crucial now. It was bad enough when Tremas had a wife; only _think_ of the danger now he's a widower.

Chance, for once, works in the Master's favor. Not only does Tremas stay in the presence room after everyone else has gone, but he actually comes to the Master's TARDIS of his own accord. And then there's nothing left to do but revel in Tremas's look of fear as the Master emerges from his TARDIS, and feel that look become a smile as the Master disengages himself from this rotting body, and slides his consciousness inside his new form.

*

This is _incredible_.

Technically, yes, it's a step down in the world. He used to be a Time Lord, and now he's a Trakenite. He has become a member of the lesser species he has always been taught to look down upon.

But he has _skin_ again.

He's _alive_. He's never been so alive, not in all his lives, and that's very, very funny, because technically, he's dead. He's reached the end of his thirteenth regeneration, and this is what's on the other side.

The Master laughs for pure joy, grinning fit to split his new face in two.

This body is a change. Its senses are less acute, its drives are stronger. It's vital, and very, very young—for all that Tremas was a mature man by the standards of his people, sixty is infantile by Time Lord standards. And this body _isn't in pain_. The Master doesn't hurt anywhere at all. His single heart beats strong and true, and his lungs draw in cool, pure air. And when he runs his hand down, from what he thinks is an entirely pardonable curiosity, and cups between his own legs, the rush of elation is like nothing he can ever remember experiencing, like he's never known what pleasure felt like before. Vulgar as it is to think in such terms, the Master hasn't had so much as an erection, much less an orgasm, in a century and a half, and if that isn't enough to leave any man a bit on the needy side, he isn't sure what would be.

He's going to find the Doctor. He's going to find the Doctor right now. His first act in this body isn't going to be running off to the nearest bedroom and wanking like a teenager for the next week. It's going to be finding the Doctor, tying him down to the best bed this TARDIS can conjure, and fucking him until that eternal, unflappable strength breaks down, and he cries and moans and _begs_ for more. For the next week. Possibly the next month. For a few years, if necessary.

Finding the Doctor is easy. The Master's TARDIS has a fix on the Doctor's, since he used its power to put the Doctor's TARDIS out of temporal sync in the Melkur Grove. The Master follows the Doctor first to Earth, predictably enough, and then to another new planet, a place called Logopolis. All the Master intends to do is wait for the proper moment to snatch his Doctor and make an escape. But he makes the mistake, as on Traken, of permitting his TARDIS to inform him what this place does, what it is. Like Traken, it's an apparently idyllic society. Like Traken, that front conceals unfathomable power.

The Master is feeling so powerful already, virility in every cell. He's _meant_ to take this opportunity, he thinks. With Logopolis in his fist, he can build anything, do anything. These huddled little people sing the _universe_ into existence. This is the sort of power he's been looking for all these years, mind and matter and machine as one. There's nothing for the Master to do now but take it.

It doesn't work that way. It never does. Instead of claiming everything in creation as his prize, it seems the Master may have accidentally doomed everything in creation to wither and die. But when it all goes pear-shaped, the world crumbling at his feet, he gains at least the promise of the Doctor fighting by his side against the encroaching collapse of all things, which is almost worth the dissolution of the universe. He gains the Doctor's hand in his, the touch he has been so long denied.

"Together?" the Master asks, as he shakes the Doctor's hand. Either they'll avert the destruction of the universe together, or they'll die by each other's sides. The last Doctor once offered the Master very much the same bargain. The Master loves it just as much now as he had then.

The Doctor refuses even to look, squeezing his eyes tight shut. "One last hope," he says bitterly.

“Come now, Doctor,” says the Master, gently, as the Doctor's TARDIS fades away, “admit it: even under the circumstances, you are glad to see me.” The Master straightens up his new body, the one the Doctor had eyed so kindly on Traken, so strong and handsome, so unlike that burned-out husk. But when the Doctor finally looks at him, it is with a disgust so deep as to amount almost to loathing.

“Glad?” this body's deep voice rumbles. “To see you? Here? Like this?” The Doctor turns away again. “Believe me, the last thing I want to do is deal with your mistakes. If there's one lesson I'd have thought you'd learned long ago, Master, it's that when you meddle with power you don't understand, you get innocent people killed.”

Even the Doctor doesn't usually play as dirty as that. It freezes the Master's blood in half an instant. He's not sure anything else could be worse than this, but the Doctor looks back at him before he delivers his coup de grace. “I'd rather anyone in the universe but you.”

Willing his own continued existence when every cell of his body was straining to die was not remotely so difficult as keeping himself strong in the face of those words and that look. But the Master swallows down the pain, smiles a sour little smile. If that's how the Doctor is going to play this, _fine_. The Doctor needs him, in ways he will admit and ways he won't, and that means the Master can still take his satisfaction.

The Master keeps his hold on the Doctor's hand, and swings his body around to stand directly behind the man who is still _his_ , no matter what he might say. His other hand comes to rest on the Doctor's shoulder, and the Doctor flinches towards the contact and away from it at once, fighting himself in a way that the Master loves to see.

“Well, I'm what you've got, Doctor,” he murmurs in Logopolitan, and then, deepening his voice, purrs a single word of Gallifreyan that has only ever been theirs. “Forever.”

The Doctor stills completely, not even breathing, and the Master knows that, whatever else happens, he's got something to keep fighting for.

And when a few hours later he lets the Doctor die, shatters the one taboo he has never broken, it is because he cannot ever, _ever_ watch those eyes reprimand him again, or hear that voice remind him of just how wrong their lives have come to be.

*

When the Master sets the radio telescope at the Pharos Project to turning, tilting while the Doctor is still out on the walkway hundreds of feet above the ground, he doesn't for one instant believe that the Doctor won't make it to the other side in time. This is the kind of escape the Doctor makes every five minutes. The Master is almost looking forward to watching him manage it.

And then he sees the Doctor clinging to a girder, dangling in open air, fingers barely holding on, and suddenly, the Master is afraid.

Once, he would have rushed to save his Doctor. Once. Now he doesn't know. He's only just got used to this new self, and he doesn't know whether he hates the Doctor more than he loves him. He knows he was insane in that last body, but he's not at all certain whether that's still the case. This fourth Doctor has always looked at the Master with such scorn, scorn or pity, and the Master hates him for that—and yet he'll always be incomplete, the rest of his lives, if this Doctor dies without looking at him, just once, with the kindness he showed to Tremas, and shows to his companions, and to every complete stranger that he meets.

It's all too confusing, too strange, and it hurts the Master's head, and he doesn't know what he should do. He doesn't know if he should dash out and pull the Doctor to safety. Why should he? And why shouldn't he? And can the Master stop hating, if it isn't that face he'll be hating any more?

Because there is something particular about _that_ face. There's something special about this Doctor, and yet he belongs to the Master less than any other Doctor ever has. And maybe that's what _makes_ him special. Maybe that's what makes him stronger and braver and cleverer and _more_ than any Doctor has ever been. Maybe that's what a Doctor without his Master weighing him down is meant to be.

The Master stands unmoving in the doorway of his control room, staring at the man holding desperately to the walkway, and watches the Doctor plummet to his death.

*

For a full five seconds, the Master is still. Then he gives an uneasy laugh. This is a triumph, isn't it? A victory? Killing his great enemy—surely that's cause for celebration?

The Master dashes for his TARDIS, throws it into the Vortex, and spends the next eight hours on the floor of his bathroom, crying and shaking and being comprehensively and entirely sick.

*

It takes reminding himself that none of this is real for the Master to snap himself out of it. None of this is real. None of this counts. He's going to build a paradox. He's going to build a paradox, and undo all this. He's going to undo it. It won't ever have happened. Only the good things happened. The Doctor and the Master married each other, and they had a daughter. Those happened. Everything since, everything bad, those are make-believe. They're not real. And in the meanwhile...

The Doctor will have regenerated, of course. Into something better. The Master knows it will be something better. And this time, the Master will take such good care of him. He'll be so _good_ to him. The Master sends himself back out of the Vortex, only an instant after he left in Earth time, and watches the Doctor regenerating, unseen by his companions.

 _Oh_ , but this new Doctor is _beautiful_. Look what the Master did. Look what he made. That can't have been wrong.

The Master will be so _sweet_ with this Doctor. This lovely, innocent Doctor—the Master will be the best husband to him in all the universe. And he'll start by seeing to it the Doctor has somewhere to recover from his fall, somewhere nice to recuperate from his regeneration. More than nice; somewhere _perfect_. A fairy tale. A nursery rhyme. The Master has always hated nursery rhymes, but not the Doctor. He's had a great fall, but fortunately the Master is better than horses and men. He'll put his Doctor back together, even _better_ than he was before. It's clear from what little the Master can see that this will be a difficult regeneration for the Doctor. But the Master will build him the loveliest place imaginable, and tend him just as tenderly as can be. The Master will never let the Doctor be hurt, not ever, ever again.

This one is going to be _his_ Doctor, and woe betide to any man who tries to tell him different.


	7. Chapter 7

These bodies are made for each other, the Master thinks—quite literally, in the Doctor's case. The Master cannot and will not admit to having killed the Doctor's last self, transform the passive state of having stood by into the active one of murder, but if he had—if that were the right way of putting it—he couldn't have done so in a better cause. The last Doctor had been so insufferably competent, so remote in his strength. But this one...this is a body built to _melt_.

When they'd been a pair of awkward adolescents, in the unsatisfying too-long nights that followed afternoons and evenings spent in frantic embraces and ravenous kisses, Koschei had suffered persistent daydreams that slipped into the fabric of his slumber. He'd imagined Theta, beautiful and blond-haired and willing beneath him, arms and legs wrapped tight around his Koschei. _Please,_ his fantasy had begged so prettily, eyes obscenely over-wide and dark-lashed, teeth worrying a swollen lower lip. _Please, Koschei, I don't want to wait any more._

 _We shouldn't,_ Koschei would whisper, though far from immune to the sweet wanton creature in his arms, wriggling against him just-so. _You know I want to, Theta, but we're too young. We haven't enough psychic control yet. Something could go wrong. Once we joined, our minds might not ever fully detatch._

 _I don't care,_ the dream-Theta would moan, pouting deliciously, grinding up his hips. _We've never followed the rules before. Nothing will go wrong. And besides,_ staring full into Koschei's eyes, deadly earnest, _I don't want to 'detatch' from you, Koschei._ Inching closer, ever closer, dangerous and irresistible. _I want to stay joined with you. Something of your mind, left behind inside me. Connecting us. Binding us. Becoming a part of me, forever._

 _Please, Koschei. I need you. Please._

Koschei's dream-self, breathless and dry-mouthed and too aroused to think, had never managed more than six seconds of further resistance before whisking off two sets of cumbersome Prydonian robes and plunging himself inside the all-too-willing mind and body that he wanted more than anything to claim.

When at last, after what had felt like eons, fantasy had become reality and he and Theta had stumbled their way to bed (still far younger than their society would ever have considered wise), it had been a great deal more awkward and a great deal less eloquent than Koschei had planned, but even more perfect in its own way. The first Doctor, no matter how young and how lovely, had never been prone to that variety of blushing-yet-shameless seduction, but his hands-on approach had merits far too numerous to list. Koschei had lain aside his earliest schoolboy fantasies, more than content to enjoy the reality, and the Master had seen no reason to pull them out of mothballs.

Until now.

It isn't just that this fifth Doctor is the youngest, visually speaking, of his bodies, nor the one who bears the closest resemblance to Theta. It isn't only the fair hair and the deep blue eyes. It's the contrast between them now, the contrasts the Master has always fed on, even stronger now than ever. This Doctor is all pale-and-pink beside the Master's dark charm, all scatterbrained gallantry beside the Master's methodical deviousness. The Master's Trakenite form has changed him, despite the fact that his brain patterns are still Time Lord—this is a body subject to the basic drive for physical reproduction, long since bred out of the Time Lords after millennia of looming. He thinks it makes him a better match for the Doctor, with his strain of human blood. The Doctor has always fucked with a primal enthusiasm that the Master only matched through his hunger for the man himself, but now he understands just how deep physical desire can run. And with the Doctor only a few doors down the hall, in his Castrovalva, the beautiful little world the Master built just for him as an apology and a recompense for the Pharos debacle, the Master doesn't think he can be blamed for the way that desire ratchets upwards to an unbearable extent. The Master won't be such a cad as to take advantage of his husband's weakened state; there'd be no satisfaction in it, anyway, when the Doctor can't even remember his own name, much less his Master's. But when the Master wraps one leather-gloved hand around his erection in the night, his inefficient single heart hammering hard and his skin feverishly hot, it is with the new old fantasy in his mind's eye.

 _Master,_ gasps his lovely new Doctor, naked in the Master's velvet-covered arms. _Please, Master, don't tease me._ Pale white hands, scrabbling against black cloth, groping him through the fabric. _I need you. I've needed you for so long. Please, Master. Please._

 _Ah, but Doctor,_ the Master purrs, surveying his possession with a cool eye and a racing pulse, _you know you shouldn't. Isn't your conscience pricking you, my pretty hypocrite?_ Running firm hands over his Doctor's body, claiming, taking. _Just imagine what your stupid pets would think to see you now, baring yourself for your best enemy, begging him to fuck you—and more than fuck you. Surely you can't afford to let me inside your head, Doctor. Just think what I could do to you. I could take you over entirely. I could grab hold of that lovely mind and never let go._ The Master leans close, eyes catching the Doctor's hypnotically. _But that's where you need me most. Isn't it?_

A moment's hesitation; once more, the plump red lip caught between gleaming white teeth, and then the eyes turning upwards, bright with surrender. _Yes,_ the Doctor breathes. _Yes, Master. I need to feel you in my head. I don't want you to leave me, not ever. I've missed you so much. Please, Master,_ spreading his body in invitation, flinging wide the portals of his mind, _I'm yours._

But the reality, when it comes, is even less like the fantasy than the Master could possibly have imagined.

*

The Doctor may think he's incredibly clever, fiddling the circuitry of his own temporal limiter before he presents it to the Master on primordial Earth. He usually does think he's incredibly clever, after all. But he forgets, sometimes, that he's not the only one of them who answers to that description.

He also forgets, in this particular case, that quantum accelerators aren't tamper-proof, either.

It's a ridiculously neat little bit of programming, if the Master does say so himself. It's even designed to cause the Doctor as little inconvenience as possible, which the Master thinks is almost extravagantly generous of him considering the man he's dealing with. He's only altered the structure of one tiny piece of the Doctor's TARDIS, and chose the doorway of the Doctor's bedroom because he's less likely to pass that way in a moment of mortal peril. The Master will catch the Doctor in a period of downtime, when he's relaxed, and can spare an hour or two. He'll walk through the quantum gateway that he doesn't know is there, and walk out again in the little breakfast nook adjoining the Master's living quarters on his own TARDIS, where the Master will be waiting, perfectly groomed and armed with tea for two. It's a simple, well-executed plan. The Master considers it entirely foolproof.

That doesn't stop him being shocked when it actually _works_.

The Doctor blinks at him. "What...ah. A quantum gateway. I should have thought of that."

"Would you take it amiss, my dear Doctor," says the Master, standing to thoughtfully pull out the Doctor's chair, "if I mentioned that I'm very glad you didn't?"

"Oh, not at all, not at all. Not when there are scones. Not unless they're your special recipe aspirin-flavor, and then maybe just a _little_ amiss."

"Honey lemon," the Master assures him, spreading his coattails dramatically as he sits.

"Lovely," smiles the Doctor, buttering a scone. "Not that it isn't always a pleasure, naturally, but I feel compelled to ask: is there any particular reason for this visit? Or did you simply kidnap me on principle?"

The Master t'sks. "'Kidnap' is such a harsh word, Doctor. If I'd simply invited you, you'd have assumed ulterior motives. This way, I've got my dastardly deed for the day out of the way early in bringing you here, so we can almost practically trust each other from here on out."

"Haven't you got ulterior motives, then?" the Doctor asks, demurely sipping his tea. "What a very great pity."

The Master nearly drops his teacup. "And why do you say that, Doctor?"

"You're so easy to understand when you're being villainous. It's much harder to know what to make of you on those rare occasions when you contrive to behave like a gentleman."

The Master raises an eyebrow, and prepares his first leer of the day—a casual yet sophisticated leer, suitable for daytime wear. "And how does that confusion," he purrs, "make you feel?"

"Confused, naturally," the Doctor supplies genially. "Isn't that usual, with confusion?"

The Master rolls his eyes, and leans back in his chair. "Stubborn to the last, Doctor," he sighs.

"Is this the last? I hadn't noticed." The Master can't think of anything to say to that. The Doctor can't seem to, either. "Hadn't you planned beyond this?" the Doctor asks, finally. "Bring me here, ply me with tea, and trust all to the patented Daytime Leer? I know you, Master. Your plans are always more elaborate than that."

The Master is beginning to realize, with a sinking feeling, that he really _hadn't_ planned beyond that. It's this damned body, he thinks—so thoroughly carnal. Just getting the Doctor within smelling distance is excuse enough for any scheme. The Doctor uses ungodly appealing shampoo, this time around. Still, the Master does have something _resembling_ a back-up plan. The Doctor is always so thoroughly disarmed when the Master chooses to be straightforward. "I'm not at all certain I had, Doctor. It gets lonely, sometimes, traveling all on my own. I wanted to see you. That's all."

The Doctor is indeed disarmed. He's practically blushing. It is, the Master thinks, disgusted with himself, adorable. "You'll be needing companions, then," the Doctor manages. "They're really not so hard to find. 'Come see the universe with me' is an unsurprisingly winning sort of line."

The Master looks straight into his Doctor's eyes. "Come see the universe with me, Doctor."

This time, the Doctor really does blush, all the way through. "Generally works better on men who haven't got TARDISes of their own," he says, his voice only squeaking a little. "Well, or women, of course. I do usually end up with women, somehow. And the men just sort of...show up. Harry was mostly an accident, and so was Ben, and Ian I sort of kidnapped—you're not the only one with that habit, you see—and Adric..." the Doctor stops, suddenly, and wages a brief battle to recover himself. "Adric stowed away," he finishes, with false brightness.

"I didn't notice your young prodigy, in our recent encounter. Has he left you, then?" the Master asks, guessing at the source of the Doctor's discomfort. By now, the Master has grown accustomed to his Doctor's need for companionship. He still doesn't like it, but he's learned not to resent it.

The Doctor sets down his teacup. It rattles on its way into the saucer. The Doctor stares at it with bloody-minded concentration. "In a manner of speaking," he replies, with the same imitation of lightness. And then the mask drops, the mask of youth that the fifth Doctor wears, and he says, not able any longer to hide the heaviness of so many, many years, "He's dead."

The Master doesn't think about it. For once, he doesn't think. "Doctor," he breathes, with honest sympathy, and lays his hand on the Doctor's arm, "I'm so sorry."

The Doctor lifts his head, with incredulous sluggishness, and looks at the Master in a way that makes the Master's lungs give up on breathing. He looks at him like he's actually seeing him, like there's been smoke and fog and walls and dirt-smudged windows in his way for all these years, and now, in one instant, there isn't. There's just them. The Doctor leans forward, very, very slowly, and kisses the Master's lips, very, very gently, and his eyes don't close until several seconds after the first contact, and the Master's eyes don't close at all. He only stares at the Doctor, because the Doctor hasn't kissed him in six hundred years, and he cannot comprehend that this can possibly be real. But his eyes and his lips are in accord as to their data, and the Master isn't sure how they could both be deceived. He let the Doctor die much more recently than he'd care to think of, and hasn't even offered him the universe in the meantime, and yet the Doctor's mouth is on his, soft and sweet and undeniable.

The Doctor doesn't kiss him for very long. He pulls back, just a little, and really _looks_ at the Master again. Then he reaches down to the hand still on his arm, lifts it gently, and hooks his fingers beneath the edge of the Master's leather glove. Slowly, slowly, he rolls the glove off the Master's hand. The Master lets him, still too much in shock to do anything else. The Doctor strips off the Master's glove, lays it gently on the table, and lifts the Master's hand towards his mouth. And then he flips the Master's hand over, and kisses the pulse point at the Master's wrist.

The Master's eyes go wide. He's breathing raggedly, and he cannot stop watching the Doctor. He cannot stop watching as the Doctor breathes against the delicate skin just below his palm, and brushes his lips there, and then, almost playfully, licks, with the very tip of his tongue. The Master feels new-born, like he hasn't existed until now, not ever. He feels like a thing of the Doctor's own making, created afresh with each so-careful touch of his lips.

The Doctor nudges his head upwards. He kisses the heel of the Master's hand, and then his palm. He lingers over every fingertip, thumb to pinky, as though anointing the Master's fingerprints, blessing his identity. The Master has been afraid to move, all this while, but when the Doctor's mouth has finished with his fingers, he thinks he can't stay still any longer, even at the risk of breaking the spell. He traces his fingers across the planes and contours of the Doctor's face: the firm ridge of a cheekbone, the feathery brush of an eyelash, the smooth curve of the nose, the pliant tug of the lips. The Doctor's eyes stay closed as the Master's touch maps out his face, and they stay closed when the Master stands, steps to the other side of the table, and kisses him, hand in the Doctor's hair. Then he opens them, blue flaring to life only a few inches from the Master's own eyes.

The Master wants to ask whether the Doctor wants this. He wants so much to be reassured. But he's not at all sure that the Doctor would say yes, if he has to stop and think about it, and the Master can't risk that, not now. He wants to say something. He always loved the nights, back in the old days, when sex would become a battle of words, and they'd tease and banter and play until they were so unbearably, beautifully close that they simply couldn't form the syllables any more. But his voice has been stolen now, his vocal chords paralyzed with the fear of a man walking on water, never certain whether the next step will be the one to break the surface tension and set him to drowning. He's afraid as he takes the Doctor's hands and pulls him from his chair, afraid while he leads him—walking backwards—into his own bedroom, afraid when the backs of his knees hit the bed and he sits down suddenly. He's never mixed sex and terror quite this way before, and it should be wrong, and distracting, and somehow it very much isn't.

The Doctor props one knee beside the Master, leaning over him on the bed, and kisses him again. The Master presses back up into it, hungry. He lets the Doctor push him down so that his back slaps against the mattress, his feet still planted on the floor. The Doctor's feet, on the other hand, dangle in open air over the edge of the bed as he straddles the Master and kisses him, over and over, strong honest kisses that are mostly lip, with only the occasional dart of his tongue. The fear, the constant fear that this cannot last sharpens the edge of every sensation, and the Master doesn't know if he'll ever overcome it sufficiently to push the Doctor's coat from his shoulders and tug off his jumper, until he finds that he already has. The Doctor's hands, for contrast, are sure and steady on the buttons of the Master's jacket, tugging his shirt away, stripping his chest bare. The Master's hands clench and unclench on the Doctor's sleeves as he fights to deepen their kisses, and then decides that he can't possibly get enough of the Doctor's mouth like this. He rolls, over and sideways, pinning the Doctor underneath him, and _now_ he can kiss him properly, pressing the Doctor's head into the bed with the force of his lips. One of the Doctor's hands is in the Master's hair, and the other is against his bare spine, pulling him even closer, and the Master feels certain he'll lose himself inside the Doctor's mouth. He doesn't stop until his lungs screech, forcing him to move away.

The Master looks down at the Doctor, splayed on the bed in his shirtsleeves and braces, his erection distorting the neat stripes of his trousers. The Master still doesn't know for certain what it is he wants to say, but he opens his mouth to say it, anyhow.

"Dont," the Doctor gets in before him. The fear blazes hot in the Master's belly again, but the Doctor doesn't move away. The Master knows what he's really saying is 'don't make this real, don't make this count, not yet.' He fights himself, tries to decide whether it's worth it, but then the Doctor wraps his legs around the Master's, and says, "Please," and the Master nods, and pulls down the Doctor's braces. He begins to unbutton the Doctor's shirt, but is forced to go on one-handed when the Doctor claims the hand still covered by the Master's glove. The Doctor looks as though he plans to strip that one off, too, at first. And then he reconsiders, wraps his lips around the Master's leather-clad index finger, and sucks it all the way into his mouth.

The Master whimpers, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Fear finally gives way in that moment. It's overwhelmed entirely by urgency, the _need_ he's had for so long. In his hurry, his fingers scrabble uselessly against the Doctor's remaining buttons, and the Master forces himself to breathe, and focus on the important things, like getting the Doctor out of his clothes, and _soon_. The Doctor licks and suckles the Master's finger as his buttons give way, and then the Master reclaims his own hand for just long enough to push the Doctor's shirt off of him.

The moment he's finished the Master's mouth is on the Doctor's. He tastes of lust and leather and lemon, and kisses the Master back with just as much fire as the Master gives. Their tongues have fully joined the party, now, and slide soft and slick, battling for dominance. With a rush of that heightened awareness that comes of such pure focus on the physical, the Master notes the feeling of the Doctor's crooked front tooth beneath his tongue, and something about that detail is so utterly perfect, so completely _real_. The Doctor's hands clutch at the sides of the Master's face, tousling themselves into his hair, and he keeps that hold when he spins, suddenly, flipping them over again, leaving himself back on top. Their lips don't part, but as one all four of their hands move to each other's flies, and their two pairs of trousers are stripped off with surprising efficiency, as they wriggle in tandem until they're left naked except for the Master's single glove. They just keep kissing as the Master brushes a gloved finger over the Doctor's nipple, making his hips buck; they keep kissing as the Doctor kneads and caresses the Master's thighs, making him moan into their mouths.

They've got so much to catch up on, so many things they haven't done in these bodies and for many bodies before. When the Master trails his bare fingers from the Doctor's hairline, down his spine, to cup the perfect roundness of his arse, the Doctor finally pulls his mouth away and throws back his head, his face contorted with an ecstasy that looks so like pain that it leaves the Master aching in two very different and equally perfect ways. The Master immediately takes advantage of the Doctor's bared neck, licking and nipping the skin in the hollow between neck and shoulder, and the Doctor makes a noise and circles his hips against the Master's. They both gasp-groan as their erections are ground together, and the Master brings his hands down to clutch ungently at the Doctor's waist, holding him still as he thrusts up with his own hips, intensifying the contact.

They fall into a strange balance, somewhere in the midway between haste and deliberation. There's a glorious and terrible urgency about it all, and yet so many of their touches and looks seem to linger. It never feels like a battle of wills, somehow, and yet they never remain in the same position for long, rolling here and back again over the bed, neither letting the other remain atop him for long, until one of them is clever enough to flip them onto their sides, instead. They stay that way for a long while, kissing and kissing and kissing each other, their legs bending and crossing in a geometric tangle, rutting slow then fast then hard then gentle against each other's bodies.

The Master gets so caught up in the physicality of it that he almost forgets how much more there is than this. It isn't until he feels the Doctor wrap his thoughts around the Master's mind, sweet and smooth as being covered by a sheet of silk, that he remembers properly. The Master doesn't open his mental barriers so much as he dissolves them, so that the Doctor sinks into his mind slowly and from all sides at once, like a piece of cloth falling through water, faster and faster the more it absorbs. It's a _beautiful_ feeling, much more than any words can express, not to be alone in his head for the first time in so very long. In moments of pique, through the long years of their separation, the Master has very occasionally sought out the comfort of a warm and willing body, and feels no guilt for it, when the Doctor insists on behaving as though their marriage is a thing of the past. But he's never let anybody else do _this_ , and he knows full well the Doctor hasn't, either. He can see it, as his mind and the Doctor's meld—this belongs to the Master alone. He sighs with pleasure, physically and mentally, and the Doctor absorbs that contentedness and spins it through their heads as something new and greater and perfect.

They forget their bodies for a little while, reducing that stimulation to a slow steady grind of hips and the occasional languorous twining of tongues, and just trace their way through disused pathways of each other's minds, trimming away the growth that comes of centuries of neglect, teasing pleasure and sensation into corners of their heads that haven't been so bright in centuries. The urgency begins to build again, until they're gasping and moaning into each other's ears, their hands tripping over each other's skin, needing more and more and more. The Master fumbles a jar from the bedside table by pure instinct, groaning and nipping at the Doctor's earlobe when the Doctor presses back against the Master's oiled fingers, impaling himself, squirming gorgeously. The psychic fireworks the Doctor sets off while the Master is preparing him are unbelievably distracting, but the Master devotes all his focus to thoroughness, stretching his lover with care. Then the Doctor rolls onto his back, shoves a pillow under his own hips, hikes up his knees, the actions an instruction as much as an invitation.

Yes, this position is basic; yes, it's simple; no, it doesn't come with bells attached, or mark the user as a connoisseur. But there's a reason it's a standby of humanoid races the universe over. It's clean and deep and _good_ , and means they can keep looking at each other all the while. Before the Master can begin a proper rhythm, the Doctor is pushing his own hips up, over and over, working himself on the Master's cock, and for a time the Master lets him, nudging and directing and amplifying with his mind. But it's been so very long, and this has been so intense already, that soon he moves his hands to clutch at the Doctor's hipbones, stilling his motion. The Doctor lets him, only wraps his arms around the Master's neck and pulls him down into a kiss as the Master begins to thrust in earnest, steady and deep. Their minds and bodies strain together as they lose themselves in this, this absolutely basic state of being, nothing else existing but their sensation and each other. This is _it_ : what it means to have a body, to be a physical thing, this need beyond all others, this straining for fulfillment. Each of them sharing this with the other, straining right along with him, is the essential opposite of 'alone.' The Doctor's face is contorted with ecstasy, and one of them, or perhaps both, is gasping little sounds of pure pleasure, and their noses are pressed hard together, and they're breathing in each other's breath, and their minds are burning, afire with lust, and the only thing the Master still needs, the one single thing he's still missing is...

"Master!"

The Master's orgasm rolls through every bit of him at once, as the Doctor arches up his spine, his whole body bowing with sensation as he comes. The Master loses track of everything, for a moment, and then his head is beside the Doctor's on the pillow.

The Doctor's eyes are still closed. He rolls towards the Master, facing him, and then he opens them.

The Master has never seen a pair of eyes so clearly smiling as these. The Master knows power, and he'd swear those could light an entire planet. The smile spreads from the Doctor's eyes to his lips, and then to the Master's eyes, too. He laughs, suddenly, a short, sharp bark, and kisses the Doctor, pure joy in his lips, and the Doctor laughs with him, and kisses him back. They break apart, still smiling, still staring at each other in positive euphoria. The Master feels so young he can hardly comprehend it.

The change in the Doctor's face isn't instantaneous. It happens gradually. He doesn't stop smiling, but awareness settles on him like drifting snowflakes, a billion insignificant bits piling into something tangible. The Master watches it happen with sinking dread, and, looking down, does his best to close off his own features. He suspects he looks more like a rebellious child than a calm and composed adult, but either is better than remaining a grinning fool in the face of a Doctor who has already begun to regret what he must see as a lapse, a mistake, not to be repeated or condoned.

And then the Doctor's hand is on the Master's cheek, tilting his face upwards, and the Doctor's eyes, when the Master meets them, are gentle.

"Master," he says slowly, "would you leave the quantum gateway open for me?"

The Master blinks, and nearly chokes on his own hope. The Doctor isn't running as fast as he can—he's asking for a way to visit the Master again. Or that's what the Master thinks he means. He can't mean anything else, can he? "Certainly, if you like," he replies, cautiously.

The Doctor nods. "And will you be here, when I come back?"

That _is_ what he means. _Oh_. "Always," the Master whispers.

The Doctor nods again, and bites his lip. And then he leans forward, and kisses the Master, a lingering, undemanding kiss, before swinging his feet off the bed.

"I ought to be getting back," he says, reaching for his clothes. "Nyssa and Tegan will get themselves into trouble if I'm gone too long. They always manage to, somehow."

"Of course." The Master's still too much in shock to think of anything better to say.

"Thank you for the tea. And the scones. And the...well."

Suddenly, the humor of it strikes the Master, and he grins. "Sex, Doctor. The word you're looking for is sex."

The Doctor raises an eyebrow, but the effect is spoiled when he pulls his jumper over his head, emerging static-haired and smiling. "As a matter of fact, the words I was looking for were 'pretty bloody marvelous sex.'"

The Master proceeds to demonstrate how eyebrow raising is _meant_ to be done. "Were they, now?"

"As a matter of fact," the Doctor repeats, straightening up from pulling on a shoe, "yes."

"Well," says the Master, standing too, completely naked beside his fully-clothed Doctor, wondering briefly where he lost his other glove, "that's all right, then."

"I rather think it is," the Doctor agrees, and takes the kiss the Master presses to his mouth, opening his lips to let the Master's tongue slide inside. "Now," the Doctor continues, "how am I getting home, precisely?"

The Master gestures at the control module for the gateway. "The blue button, Doctor. Anything that has passed through will be sent back where it was meant to be. Meaning you, of course."

"Meaning me." The Doctor rocks back and forth on his heels, seeming to feel that there is something more to be said. "Well," he says, finally, "I'll be seeing you soon, then, Master."

"I look forward to it," the Master replies, as the Doctor presses the blue button, and vanishes.

*

The Master isn't sure he really expects the Doctor to come back, but just in case, he makes a few small modifications to the quantum gateway. It's now designed to give the Master a quarter of an hour's warning when the Doctor walks through his own side. To the Doctor, the transportation will feel instantaneous, but the Master will have time enough to prepare in advance.

When the Master's cloister bell rings, a few weeks later, he's on a call to a member of the family Slitheen, who claimed to have got his hands on a piece of tech the Master might find intriguing. The Master has all kinds of connections all across the universe, from overlord to underworld, and they've often paid off in the pursuit of his Device. Today's negotiation, however, is clearly destined to be a loss, and the Master is only too glad to slam off the viewscreen on that ugly green face, and hurry about his business.

Fifteen minutes later, he is dressed in white tie and tails, a black silk top hat in one gloved hand and a very fine walking stick in the other, a black cloak with red silk lining draped over his arm, every hair slicked neatly into place. The Doctor raises his eyebrows at the Master's attire the moment he steps from the gateway, but before he can say anything his attention is caught by the second suit of evening clothes spread out across the bed, complete with black plimsolls and, in what the Master thinks is a rather charming detail, a green carnation for his lapel.

"Hurry up and change, Doctor," he announces, before the Doctor can ask, and then heads towards the door.

"You don't need to go, you know," says the Doctor, coyly, and the words tingle electric up the Master's spine. He considers walking over and kissing the Doctor, but he's not certain of the rules, just yet, and anyway, he's got a plan, this time. The Master is never one to run from a well-formed plan.

"If we're going to get out of this TARDIS at all tonight, Doctor, I assure you that I do," he replies, and leaves.

Five minutes later, the Doctor meets him in the console room. The clothes suit him, very, very well indeed. The Master is used to not telling the Doctor things like that, now. But while he still doesn't know the rules, he figures he may as well get his kicks. "You look very nice, Doctor."

"You would think so. You chose the clothes."

How far can he push this, precisely? "I chose the man in them," the Master purrs, and offers the Doctor his arm. To his delight, the Doctor blushes slightly and takes it.

"Where are we going in such a hurry, then?"

The Master's TARDIS doors open. London is never anywhere but London. In any time—in this particular case, 1899—it is completely unmistakable. The Master watches the Doctor's eyes light up with pleasure. "I'm told the roast duck at the Savoy is exceptional, and after that, we've got a box to watch the Divine Sarah play Hamlet. Subject to your approval, naturally."

"Oh," says the Doctor. "Oh, now, that's just not _fair_. Even for you, Master, that _must_ count as cheating somehow."

"Truly, Doctor, my dastardliness knows no bounds," the Master deadpans. "Shall we?"

They do. The roast duck is indeed exceptional, as is the meringue glacé. Sarah Bernhardt lives up to her epithet. But the Master has forgotten something about _Hamlet_. He has utterly failed to account for the pervasive image of the young, dead heroine, neglected to plan for its effects, and finds himself shaking with repressed emotion somewhere in the fourth act. He doesn't dare look at the Doctor, hoping against hope that he isn't making the same connections, isn't thinking the same thoughts—that the Master hasn't already ruined his chances in this whatever-it-is-they're-doing. Then he feels the Doctor's hand settle atop his on the armrest.

The Master looks down as the Doctor twines their fingers together. The Doctor doesn't look away from the stage. He certainly doesn't speak. But he holds the Master's hand, and keeps on holding it, all through the rest of the play, and all the way back to his TARDIS.

The sex before the Doctor leaves that night is sweeter and gentler than the Master could possibly have imagined they would ever have again, and he thinks that, apparently, he is playing this game right after all.

*

The Master knows that his focus is beginning to split, and it worries him, more than a little. He's feeling the pull of obsession again where his Device is concerned, strong and clarion-clear. One breathtaking day, he actually gets the thing to turn on. The power output is only a tiny fraction of what it ought to be, something obviously still far-from-right, but it's _functioning_. He hooks it up to a simple little lamp, and the sight of that glowing bulb is among the most beautiful things he's ever seen. In fact, he thinks it ranks somewhere above the Nike of Samothrace and Fifth Dynasty Gelth porcelain, and below only his Rose, every day of her life, and the Doctor's face at the moment _just_ after the last aftershock of orgasm leaves him, when he is completely and utterly at peace.

It's that last, of course, that's the problem. The Master is past the point when his schemes for power have anything much to gain him. By now, there's hardly a scientific secret in the universe that the Master doesn't know, at least where anything to do with energy is concerned, and on the rare occasions when he does need help from some other culture, or access to some new piece of tech, it's much easier to buy, bargain, threaten or steal it away from the owner than to engage in the sort of messy allegiances that so bogged him down in his twelfth body. But the trouble of it is, he's got used to his schemes, and the even worse trouble of it is, so has the Doctor. The Master has got used to their little war games being the way he and the Doctor approach one another, and this other, fledgling something that's begun to happen in the times between isn't reliable enough to take the place of their larger duel, not yet. The Master doesn't focus all his attention on the Doctor, the way he did when the Doctor was trapped on Earth; he's too aware, now, of the value of his own time, of how much of it he'll need to spend on his Device if he really plans to finish it and build his paradox before this borrowed body runs out. But he can only go so long before the urge to plan just a _little_ scheme for the Doctor begins to niggle. And the thing of it is, the Master is no good at _little_ schemes.

The Master is only the tiniest bit ashamed, later on, of how entirely the Magna Carta plot was a bid for the Doctor's attention. It's not really his fault. The Device is at a very tricky stage, and the Master shouldn't really be diverting any of his mental resources at all, but the itch has become more distracting than simply giving in and scratching it. And so the Master concocts a quick little makeshift plan, making good use of the materials at hand—very useful, having a shape-shifting robot around the place, and his circuitry is _fascinating_ —and throws it into play. Besides, it's an excuse for a new disguise, with an even fuller beard than his own, and the fur trim on his tabard is really quite a pleasant change, all soft and warm and sensual.

The night after the conclusion of their encounter—the Master is loath to call it a battle, when neither of them really stood to gain or lose anything at all—the Master's cloister bell chimes, and he hurriedly sets aside his tools and makes himself presentable.

"It really wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, letting me be iron maidened to death," the Master points out, as soon as the Doctor appears. "Not that I was, of course, but you know what I mean."

"I trust you to look after yourself, Master," says the Doctor, responding to the smile that had belied the Master's words.

"Still, I think I deserve some sort of amends."

"And what, precisely, did you have in mind?"

The Master wraps his arm around the Doctor's waist and tugs him close, a little abruptly, but not enough to be called sharp. "I was thinking something along these lines," he says, and leans up for a kiss, full and deep and lovely, which the Doctor returns with interest.

"Well," says the Doctor, as the Master pulls back, "if you insist." He leans in for another kiss, but the Master slips away, leaving the Doctor blinking in surprise.

"We're going out again, Doctor," he announces.

"Are we?" asks the Doctor. "May I ask where?"

"I had thought perhaps dancing?" Gallifrey is not a pro-dancing society. The Master recalls a few highly formalized gavotte-like affairs that seemed to consist mostly of extending one leg, ankle turned out, and then hopping. Watching the way lesser species dance was one of the Master's first revelations that perhaps his society might not have a monopoly on everything good in the universe after all. He's been itching to try human dances with the Doctor for longer than he can remember.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Well. It's a very nice thought, only...I don't think I've tried, in this body, and barely ever before. Dancing, that is. I'm not entirely certain I remember _how_. And for all I know, this regeneration has got no sense of rhythm at all. I was _meant_ to get a chance, in fancy dress and everything, only I ended up accused of murder instead. You know how these things go."

"With you, yes, I do know. Well. I suppose, if you're opposed..."

"No, it isn't that." The Doctor catches the Master's arm. "I do want...would you settle for a compromise?"

"Go on."

"You, and me, and dancing. Just not out. You've got a ballroom in here somewhere, haven't you?"

"Do ballrooms come standard?"

"Probably not," the Doctor concedes.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have picked one up. _Some_ of us don't feel the need to burden ourselves unnecessarily with every piece of..."

"Clearly _not_ unnecessary, in this particular case," the Doctor interrupts.

"Really Doctor," the Master scoffs. "As though it were _impossible_ to dance anywhere but a ballroom."

"Where would you suggest, then?"

The Master snaps his fingers. All the furniture in his living quarters, with the exception of the bed, withdraws itself neatly into concealed compartments in the walls and floors, leaving a space of empty floorboards more than sufficient for a single couple to dance in. "TARDIS," the Master calls, "put on something suitable, won't you?" A Strauss waltz drifts in from nowhere, in sound so vivid the Master nearly looks around for the musicians.

"Show-off," the Doctor mutters. "All those fancy features on these later models—completely unnecessary."

"Clearly _not_ unnecessary, in this particular case," the Master teasingly flings the Doctor's own words back at him.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Aren't you meant to be charming me, Master?"

The Master slides one hand over the Doctor's waist, and takes his hand with the other. "I do that without trying, my dear Doctor."

The Doctor laughs. "Hard to say, as you're always trying."

"And here you are," says the Master, swinging his Doctor into the waltz. "I must be doing something right."

"Here I am," the Doctor agrees. He manages three steps wherein a generous observer might detect _some_ resemblance to waltzing before tripping over his own toes, sending the both of them sprawling in an ungainly heap on the floor. "Oh dear. I'm fairly certain that wasn't meant to happen."

"Good lord, Doctor," the Master announces, as soon as he can breathe. "You really _can't_ dance."

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" says the Doctor. "It's supposed to be easy, isn't it, waltzing? One-two-three, one-two-three, that sort of thing?"

"Yes," the Master agrees.

"Knowing you, you had far more ambitious things planned," says the Doctor, ruefully. "Rumbas and sambas and salsas and mambos and tangos and any number of other two-syllable five-letter consonant-vowel-consonant-consonant-vowel sorts of dances."

"And merengue," the Master adds. "I wasn't counting on the not-staying-on-our-feet-for-more-than-thirty-seconds part."

"Yes," says the Doctor, gloomily. Then he brightens. "I'm fairly certain I once learned to do the jitterbug?"

The Master tries to keep his look to just plain scorn, without veering into 'withering scorn' territory. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but I don't think that'll be much help."

"No," the Doctor grants. "No, probably not." He considers. "Popcorn and a movie?"

"We'd never agree on the movie. Besides, I have no intention of giving up so easily."

"Oh no. I know that light in your eyes, Master. When it isn't heralding the downfall of a noble and peaceful civilization, that's the kind of look that means I'm going to be a prisoner in your TARDIS until such time as I can execute a satisfactory foxtrot, isn't it?"

"Nonsense, Doctor. It simply means I don't think we ought to give up on the very first attempt. Come here," the Master stands, reaching down to pull the Doctor up with him. "We'll try something less formal. TARDIS, something by Ella Fitzgerald, I think." The Master seems to recall something about that name and romance, from his time on Earth. It's worth a try, anyway. "I refuse to believe that you can't manage simply to stand and sway, Doctor."

"It's worth a try, I suppose," says the Doctor, gamely.

The Master slides his hands to the small of the Doctor's back, and the Doctor, finding nowhere else available, wraps his around the Master's neck. It is immediately obvious that this is a far from ideal arrangement, considering the fact that the Doctor is (for the umpteenth time, the Master thinks sourly) The Tall One this time.

There are a few bars of strings, and then the words drift in, slow and sweet.

' _Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you...'_

"Master..."

"Oh, all _right_ ," the Master sighs. He moves his hands to the Doctor's upper arms, the closest he can do to feeling dignified if he's going to have to let the Doctor lead.

"A thousand pardons," grins the Doctor, looking not the slightest bit sorry, as he wraps his own arms around the Master's waist.

"You could at least be a little less decorous about where you put those hands, Doctor."

"Maybe later, dear."

"Oh, most _definitely_ later," the Master assures, pressing a kiss to the corner of the Doctor's mouth.

The Doctor is admittedly doing rather better with a basic slow dance than he managed with waltzing. He's stayed on his feet, at any rate, and the motion of his hips is almost rhythmic. But his movements are far too stiff, everything about him concentrating too hard. "Relax, Doctor," the Master suggests, gently.

"I'm trying!" There's a painfully endearing note of panic in his voice.

"Oh, for Rassilon's sake," the Master mutters. "Like this..." He spins the Doctor, suddenly, front to the Doctor's back, moving one hand to his stomach. The other arm presses against both of their hips. "Move with me, Doctor."

"Honestly, Master?" the Doctor asks. "At this moment, I think we may be the living embodiment of the biggest cliché in the entire universe. Did you _really_ just say..."

"Oh, hush, you," the Master murmurs into his neck, letting his beard tickle. "Don't pretend you're not enjoying it." The Doctor's movements are smoother, his hips keeping good time with the Master's as they sway to the rhythm.

"This was your plan for the evening all along, wasn't it? You _knew_ I couldn't dance, you just wanted a chance to act out..."

"You are a perpetrator of scandalous and scurrilous falsehoods, Doctor. I..."

"Oh, as though you've never stooped to over-dramatics before. Those ridiculous disguises, and the absurd plots, and..."

The Master decides that there's only one way of shutting the Doctor up, and that he's not at all averse to it. He lifts a hand to tilt the Doctor's face towards him, the other still pressed against his stomach, and kisses him, as they sway to the last few bars.

There is a moment of silence as the song and the kiss meet a simultaneous end. They smile contentedly at each other, still wrapped around each other. The Master's TARDIS, however, seems to have decided that its instructions were to continue to play until told otherwise, and soon a few notes on the guitar herald the beginning of another song, in that same round, smooth voice.

 _'In my solitude, you haunt me  
With reveries of days gone by  
In my solitude, you taunt me  
With memories that never die'_

The Doctor and the Master have both frozen. "TARDIS," says the Master, hoarsely. "That isn't what I..."

"No," the Doctor cuts him off.

 _'I sit in my chair, I'm filled with despair  
No one could be so sad  
With gloom everywhere, I sit and I stare  
I know that I'll soon go mad'_

"Doctor," the Master pleads.

"No," the Doctor repeats, voice harsh with strain, and the song goes on.

 _'In my solitude, I'm praying  
Dear lord above, send back my love  
Dear lord above, send back my love.'_

"Turn off the music, TARDIS," the Master whispers, as the song ends.

The silence is heavy, crushing them both. The Master cannot look at the Doctor, cannot bear to know what he's thinking right now. It feels ridiculous, grotesque to be holding the Doctor as he is, but the Master isn't sure he can move. He's about to do it anyway when the Doctor leans forward, just slightly, and rests their foreheads together. He brushes his mind against the Master's at the same time. He isn't thinking _at_ the Master, exactly, not proper communication, so much as he's inviting the Master to look into his uncut thoughts.

 _I don't want to remember I don't I don't not any of it please I want to forget please Master please let me forget take me to bed and make me forget Master Master please let me forget..._

The Master crushes their mouths together, and the Doctor responds eagerly, hand fisting in the Master's hair to pull him closer still. They push off each other's clothes as they're stumbling for the bed. They cannot stop touching, stop kissing, not for a single instant, because the moment they stop fighting the weight of the truth will come crumbling in on them, and ruin everything they've tricked themselves into believing they can have together.

The Doctor's left open the Master's channel into his inner monologue, whether by accident or design the Master isn't certain. Over and over again, the Master hears the Doctor's desire to forget, but never what, precisely, the Doctor is striving so hard not to remember. The Master has his guesses, and doesn't like them, but if oblivion is what the Doctor wants, then it's what the Master wants to give. It takes until the Doctor is on his hands and knees, literally screaming with pleasure, before he finally gives way to sensation and stops thinking altogether, except to chant the Master's name over and over again in his mind. The Master relishes that victory more than he ever has any of his bids for conquest.

That night, the Doctor stays, and twice wakes the Master with hands questing hungry over his body, until the Master has almost had his fill—but not really, never really. Not ever again. There won't ever be enough time, now, to make up for how much they've lost, in all these years alone.

When they truly awaken, up to face the day and the prospect of the Doctors imminent departure, the Doctor is all sweetness, complimenting the Master's breakfast and cuddling at every opportunity and making a gift of his wittiest repartee. But when he kisses the Master goodbye and presses that blue button, he leaves the Master no more certain than he has ever been whether the Doctor will ever be back.

*

As it turns out, it isn't long at all. And after his next visit, the Master knows a great deal more clearly whether the Doctor will return or not.

The fourth time the Doctor uses the gateway, the Master is too annoyed to properly prepare. He just waits, impatient for his quarter of an hour to come to an end.

"You couldn't have trusted me a little, Doctor? Not even one of you? Or, failing that, at least have stopped your precious Brigadier from koshing me over the..." The Master is cut off by the Doctor's lips, hard and demanding. Before the Master can even begin to fully process that kiss, the Doctor has spun him around, pinned the Master's hands against the nearest wall, and sunk his teeth into the Master's neck. The Master gives a strangled little shout, and then the Doctor moves his mouth to the Master's ear.

"There is something very bizarrely _arousing_ ," the Doctor punctuates the word by thrusting his hips against the Master's arse as his hands dart down to unfasten the Master's trousers, "about watching you play hopscotch."

The Master laughs, a little breathlessly. "I think you're just worried I might have been more interested in one of your other...fuck!" The Doctor's fingers are slick and glide easily, but they press into the Master without any warning whatever, and the pleasurable burn of it makes the Master's eyes roll back in his head.

"Yes," replies the Doctor, loosening his own trousers and positioning himself, "I'd come to that same conclusion myself, thank you." The moment he's inside the Master, the Doctor brings one of his hands back up, to keep the Master's wrists pinned against the wall. "Like this, do you think?" the Doctor asks, as he gives a series of sharp, shallow thrusts.

"Not bad," the Master grits out, wondering where the hell this side of the Doctor has been all these years, and if anyone would believe the Master if he tried to tell them what's hiding behind that floppy blond facade.

"'Not bad' isn't nearly good enough. Like this, perhaps?" the Doctor lengthens his strokes, slows them, teasing.

"No," the Master pronounces, though when the Doctor breathes against his neck he's less certain.

"Do you want me to stop, then?" asks the Doctor, and comes threateningly close to pulling out entirely.

"Even a man with your face couldn't be such a fool as to believe _that_ , Doctor."

"Hmmm. Then it must be this..." the Doctor snaps his hips hard, driving himself in almost to the root, and then again, and again. "Is that what you want?" he asks, his voice growing unsteady.

" _Doctor_ ," the Master groans.

"I'll take that as a yes," the Doctor pants, and kisses the Master's neck as he keeps thrusting. "Say it again, Master."

"Doctor," the Master repeats, and, because he's feeling generous, "Doctor, Doctor!" Because it won't do to be _too_ obliging, though, he tugs with his wrists, making a single-hearted bid for escape.

"I want your hands precisely where they are, Master," the Doctor purrs. "Whatever could you want them for?"

"I thought," the Master struggles for breath, "since yours are hanging about so lazily, at least one of us could put his to good use."

"What kind of use, precisely?"

"Touch me." Speech is becoming more difficult, as the Doctor's hips continue their relentless rhythm. He hasn't even been here five minutes, and already the Master is coming apart at the seams.

"You mean," the Doctor murmurs, "that you want my hand on your cock?"

The Master groans. "You don't know what it does to me, hearing you talk filthy with that sweet mouth, Doctor," he confesses.

"Mmm," the Doctor hums against his ear. "Would you rather have 'that sweet mouth' instead, Master? Once I'm done fucking you, do you want me on my knees for you? I am being a bit dictatorial today—you ought to have some reward."

The Master has _no_ idea how the Doctor still has brainpower enough left to use words like 'dictatorial.' "As much as...that's not an offer...I'd usually refuse," he chokes out, "I think I'll keep to...my original request."

The Master can practically hear the Doctor raising his eyebrows. "Might I inquire why?"

The Master struggles against it, but there's no other way to say it. "I want to come with you."

The Doctor's free hand moves from where it has been lingering on the Master's hip to press against his stomach, tantalizingly close to where the Master wants it. "You're a romantic, Master," says the Doctor, amused and clearly touched.

"Don't tell. I've got a...god, _Doctor_...a reputation to...preserve."

"Your secret is safe with me." The Doctor's fingers trace over the Master's stomach.

"Doctor, stop teasing and touch me."

The Doctor's rhythm is beginning to go ragged, his control beginning to slip. "Ask...nicely."

This is no time for shame. "Please, Doctor."

The Doctor's fingers encircle the Master's cock at the same moment as he slides his mind into the Master's, and the Master nearly comes right then. He's less ashamed of that reaction when he feels how close the Doctor is. The Master sets about heightening, brightening, deepening the pleasure in their coupled minds as the Doctor keeps bucking his hips and stroking the Master's cock and kissing his neck. With the Master seeing to the psychic angle and the Doctor attending to the physical, it's not long before they're both shaking on the edge of release.

 _Look at me, Doctor,_ the Master commands in their minds, and when the Doctor does he turns his head and kisses him hard on the mouth. The Doctor lets go of the Master's hands, and their three free arms tangle tight around each other. The Doctor gives one last thrust, one last squeeze, and the Master one last cascade of pure neural bliss, and then they're both coming, moaning into each other's mouths.

They manage to remain upright, but it's a near thing. As soon as he's got enough control to manage it with any elegance at all, the Master slumps down with his back against the wall, and the Doctor joins him almost instantly, and lays his head on the Master's shoulder.

"You'll have to forgive me," the Doctor murmurs. "I was...I don't know what I was. It's this body, I think. Everything gets so repressed that something's got to give, every now and then."

"Forgive you?" the Master asks, incredulous. "Doctor, I've been waiting for the day when you would storm into my TARDIS overcome by lust for...oh, ever since you left Gallifrey, really."

The Doctor stiffens. "I...all right. Good, then." He doesn't sound nearly as happy as he did a moment ago.

A stab of annoyance shoots through the Master. He decides, in that moment, that he's through guessing. "Doctor," he says, "I can't play this game by your rules if you don't tell me what they are."

"I don't know what you mean," the Doctor says, sitting up and doing up his fly. "I don't recall any..."

"Doctor," growls the Master. "Don't play stupid. Not with me."

This Doctor can look guilty better than anyone the Master has ever met. He squirms for a long moment. "Don't talk about the past," he says, finally. "Please, Master, let's not talk about the past. This has been so lovely, these past few meetings. I've enjoyed this time with you, very much. Don't let's drag all...all of everything into it again. Can't we just be two men who enjoy each other's company?"

The Master expects to hear himself giving in. He always does, where the Doctor is concerned. "No," he says, and stops. Then again, stronger, "No. No, it isn't. Doctor, I know that there are things in our past that we'd both rather forget, but _everything_? Just pretending that we didn't even meet until a few months ago? I don't want to forget playing Rassilon and Omega in the mountains as boys, Doctor. I don't want to forget sabotaging each other's temporal physics homework. I don't want to forget our honeymoon. I don't want to forget the day Rose was..."

"That's enough," the Doctor's voice snaps. "Just stop it, Master."

"Stop what? Telling the truth? We had a daughter together, Doctor. We were married—we're _still_ married. I'm so _sick_ of pretending, I can hardly stand it. I _love_ you, Doctor. I said forever, and I meant it, and _you_ meant it, too, and..."

"Be _quiet_!" The Doctor stands up, heading for the controls of the quantum gateway. "I should never have let this happen. This was a mistake. I..."

The Master catches the Doctor's wrist just before he reaches the controls and pushes the Doctor up against the wall, pinning the Doctor with his body and his hands. "Oh no you don't," he growls. "Not this time."

"Let me go."

"No." The Master kisses the Doctor, shoving his head back against the wall, forcing their mouths hard together. The Doctor doesn't resist.

"Stop it, Master."

" _No_." The Master slips his knee between the Doctor's thighs, and pushes upwards, not at all gently, making the Doctor gasp. "You're not going to run away again, Doctor. I won't let you. You're _mine_."

The Doctor's eyes flare. "Not if I have anything to say about it. Now let me _go_."

"You've forfeited your right to a say in this. _I'll_ be the one making the decisions." The Master pushes into another rough kiss, grinding his body against the Doctor's, but this time, the Doctor doesn't just take it. He pulls the Master's lower lip into his mouth and bites, viciously hard.

"Ow!" The Master can't spare a hand to wipe away the blood, but the taste is strong and bitter as the anger coursing through the Master. "You..."

"You want to make the decisions? Then make one, Master," the Doctor spits. "You can let me go, or you can rape me—or try. But it won't be any less than that, if you don't stop it, _now_."

The Master releases the Doctor, shaking with rage. "Sometimes I think I understand how low you think I am, Doctor," he snarls, "and you always prove me wrong."

"And you always prove me right," the Doctor shoots back, walking away.

"Is that what you want from me, then, hmm?" The Master's hand clamps hard on the Doctor's arm. "To be able to say that none of it was your fault? That I _forced_ you? To have someone else to blame?"

"You're _despicable_." The Doctor wrenches his arm away.

"And you love me," the Master says, triumphant. " _That's_ what this is all about, Doctor. You, with all your precious moral scruples—you love _me_. Your great _enemy_ , a man you find reprehensible, and you can't help that I'm the only man you'll ever want. You'll _always_ come back, sooner or later. I don't have to keep you here. Go ahead, _go_. You'll be back."

The Doctor opens his mouth, trying to find the last word. It isn't there. His face loses its anger, and settles into a look of pure misery. "You're right," he says, raw and empty. "I'll love you forever, Master. But the thing of it is, no matter how much I love you, I'll never, ever forgive you."

The Doctor presses down on the control panel, and is gone.

*

Late that night, the Master destroys the quantum gateway with one hard hammer blow to the controls. For a long moment he sits and stares at the damage, nausea welling in his stomach and pain still aching through his bitten lip. And then he turns and stumbles back down the hallway, back to his lab, to keep working for the paradox that will unmake all the days that have ever felt like this.


	8. Chapter 8

'Now' is an impossible thing. It is never any other time, and yet the moment he pins time down it slips away again, into another now that isn't. Everything is 'was' and 'will be,' never 'is.' He has jam tomorrow and jam yesterday. He had the Doctor, and will have him again even if it takes forever. But he never, ever, ever has him _now_.

It's enough to drive a practically sane madman out of his lunatic mind.

*

The Master refuses to give the Doctor a single second more of his attention. He has no intention of plotting even a single plot. He's going to work, and work, and get his Device done, and build his paradox, and never have to so much as _look_ at this timeline's Doctor ever, ever again. He doesn't want anything more to do with the man. He doesn't miss him. He doesn't even think about him at all.

When he isn't busy not being able to think about anything else.

If the Device would consent to cooperate with the Master's plans, he thinks he might be able to keep to his resolution. But it remains stubbornly stuck, spitting out barely enough power to darken bread from off-white to tan. His grand Device isn't even capable of burning a piece of toast, after seven hundred years of work, and it makes the Master want to scream. Nothing he tries can persuade the damned thing to work as it's meant to. True, it does at least turn on, and without killing anybody, and that much is progress. But no matter how many endless days and nights the Master slaves, nothing seems to change.

That frustration needs a vent. The Master needs to fight or fuck, and there's only one man in the universe worth the effort of either. But fucking, it seems, is once again firmly off the table. And fighting is getting him absolutely nowhere.

At very least, he needs to look at the Doctor again. Just a look. And then he remembers that he's got a practically risk-free way of seeing as much of the Doctor as he likes.

Of all the very, _very_ clever things the Master has accomplished in his life, one of the cleverest, in his humble opinion, was breaking into the Matrix, back in his twelfth body. The location of that Uxariean doomsday device hadn't turned out to be worth the effort—the Master doesn't want to think about the Doctor's rejection of that particular advance, not a bit—but the Master had been even shrewder than the situation demanded. He'd left himself a well-concealed backdoor that he's used many times over the years. It's offered him insights that have been invaluable in the construction of his Device, granting him the ability to stop in for a chat with every great scientific genius his species has ever produced, including Rassilon himself. And it's offered him something else, even more valuable.

The Master's first reaction when he learned that the CIA had placed non-stop surveillance on his Doctor was rage. He'd vowed to seek the Doctor out, inform him immediately, and help him to take vengeance on the Time Lords who believed themselves to have some right to his Doctor's life. The Master is the _only_ one with rights where the Doctor is concerned, and he's not _about_ to let anybody else infringe them. But after the red fades from his vision, the Master realizes what a gift he's just been handed. He can see _everything_ the Doctor does. It's all there, every moment the Doctor has been away from him, at least since the bugs were planted when the CIA forced the Doctor into his third body.

The Master has never taken advantage of that window into the Doctor's life, not even once. He's always felt it smacked too nearly of desperation, of obsession. He tries to pretend he never thought any such thing as he pulls up the relevant files. He's got a right to look in on the Doctor if he likes. The Doctor should be here with him, after all. It's the Doctor's own fault, clearly, for straying so far from where he's meant to be. And besides, the Master decides, he'll only watch conversations in which the Doctor mentions the Master's own name. He deserves to know if the Doctor's been talking about him behind his back.

A quick search informs the Master that there has been only one such conversation since their last meeting on board the Master's own TARDIS. The Master isn't best pleased by that fact, but he's distracted when he notices the other participant in said conversation. The Master knows that Nyssa of Traken left the Doctor's TARDIS some time ago, off to some hopeless mercy mission of exactly the sort the Master would expect to appeal to a companion of this soft, supposedly noble version of the Doctor. The Master had been glad of the change. True, Nyssa was vastly less insufferable than many of the Doctor's companions, especially the other young people the Doctor favors these days. The Master had felt almost...tender, towards her. He knows why, of course, but so far as he's concerned, the fact that she's this body's daughter ought to make him despise her more deeply than all the rest. He wants no imitations; the Master will have his own daughter, his real daughter, his Rosamaracandrasalcha back, or no daughter at all. And yet, Nyssa...she's a good girl, the Master thinks, surprising himself with the choice of words. In another life, he might have been quite fond of her. If he had accepted the Doctor's invitation to travel together, back on Gallifrey before Rose's death, the Master thinks this is one of the Doctor's pets the Master might even have permitted him to keep. And then again, if the Doctor and the Master had been traveling together all this while, Nyssa of Traken would have had a family, and a planet, and no need of the Doctor. It only goes to show, the Master decides, that there's no use thinking of what-ifs.

The Master rewinds his stolen Matrix footage a bit, trying to learn what the Doctor is doing with Nyssa in the first place. He sees the Doctor's current pair of companions, the antipodal Miss Jovanka and that Turlough boy who looks at the Doctor in ways the Master most emphatically does not approve, demanding a respite on Earth for the purposes of visiting Tegan's grandfather. The Master watches the Doctor assure the youths that he will return shortly, and set off in the TARDIS for a space station called Terminus.

For once, the Doctor gets his destination absolutely right. Nyssa looks up at the unmistakable sound of the TARDIS as it materializes in her quarters.

"Doctor!" Nyssa's face is bright with enthusiasm.

The TARDIS doors open, and the Doctor bounds out, all smiles. "Nyssa!" he cries in his turn, rushing over to take her hands. "How wonderful to see you again. How long has it been, for you?"

"Two years, Doctor," Nyssa answers, smiling. "And for you?"

"Oh, only a few months, on this end. Tegan and Turlough are well; they send their love. That is, I suppose they _would_ have done, if I'd told them where I was going."

Nyssa's face registers a hint of surprise, but she knows better than to ask the Doctor for explanations. "Sit down, Doctor, please." She gestures to a small table in the corner of her cramped living quarters, most of which are now dominated by the TARDIS, and takes one of the chairs herself. The Doctor does the same. "Is there any special reason for this visit?"

"Oh, no, not at all! Not really. Wanted to see how you've been getting on. How's that cure for Lazar's working out?"

"Splendidly, Doctor—we've had wonderful success, though of course there's still plenty of work to be done. You've been having the same kinds of adventures as always, I suppose?"

"Oh, this and that. The usual thing. Eternals. Silurians. The Master again, of course."

"Of course," says Nyssa, quietly. "And he got away again, naturally."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Why?" says Nyssa, suddenly, sharper than her usual gentle tones. "You do so much to protect the universe, Doctor, but he always slips through your fingers. Why do you _always_ let him get away? Why _him_?"

"This is what I came to talk to you about. Well, in a sense."

"About the Master?" Nyssa asks.

"Nyssa," says the Doctor softly, taking Nyssa's hands, "I owe you an apology. Probably several, but first, because I wasn't there for you, after your father died. I didn't know you very well, then, but I never asked if you needed someone to talk to, and I should have, a very long time ago. Have you talked with anyone, Nyssa? Tegan, or Adric, perhaps? One of the other doctors here on Terminus?"

Nyssa has gone very pale. "I don't like to talk about such things, Doctor," she says. "I'm... just not that kind of person. It wouldn't help."

The Doctor shakes his head. "I used to think like that. But you're wrong. You can't bury these things. I promise you, you can't." He takes a deep breath. "I love all my companions, you know, Nyssa, very much. There've been many before you, and there'll be many after, I'm sure. But I've never told this story to anybody, and I don't expect I ever will again. Of all my friends, you're the one who deserves to know it. It's a story about grief, and the harm it can do, and it's yours, if you're willing to listen. Afterwards, maybe you'll be able to trust me with your own confidences. And then again, maybe you won't. But I'll be here to listen, if you want to talk."

Nyssa looks bemused, in her calm way, but she nods. "Go on, Doctor."

The Doctor swallows hard, looks down, and then up again. "When I was very young," he says, "I had a daughter. She was a beautiful girl, and brilliant, and brave, and she always tried to do what was right. She grew into a young woman I was so proud just to know. You remind me of her, very much." The Doctor smiles at Nyssa, bittersweet, and touches her cheek for a moment. "Which I suppose is ironic, actually," he says, pulling his hand away.

"Why ironic?"

"You'll understand soon," says the Doctor, and plants his hands on his knees, clutching a little too tightly. "Anyway, my daughter, Rose, she..." the Doctor closes his eyes, his lips tight, his cheeks very pale. "She died," he says simply. "It was an accident. Very sudden, just like your father." He opens his eyes again, staring into nothingness. "My husband was injured in the explosion that killed her. He was in the hospital for several days afterwards. And there were...there were all sorts of formalities, and we had a young granddaughter, with no one else to take care of her. So for the first while, it was...I didn't have any time to grieve. There was too much happening, and I was in shock, and the one person who could have shared that pain with me, he wasn't there. I didn't have anything to do with my grief, and I didn't even have time to feel it. The only thing I could do, right then, at the beginning, when it hurt the most, was turn that hurt into anger. That was the only way I had to cope. It was wrong, but it was the only thing I had. I needed to blame someone for the way I was feeling."

The Doctor is still staring into nothingness, Nyssa watching him with obvious sympathy. "My husband didn't deserve to be the one to take that blame. When he came home, I should have tried to talk to him. We could have helped each other. He needed me, as much as I needed him, and instead," the Doctor takes a deep breath, "instead I told him it was all his fault. The accident. I told him that he killed our little girl, and that I never wanted to see him again." The Doctor has finally started to cry, but he doesn't seem to notice. A few quiet tears make tracks down his cheeks and drip off his jaw. "I loved him so much, Nyssa, but I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't look at him without seeing her." The Doctor's voice breaks, then. He takes a moment, breathes deep, composes himself, forcing his emotions back under control. "So I took our granddaughter, and I ran away. That's how I became a traveler in the first place. And I know I made it worse for Susan, because I wouldn't talk to her about her mother, either. I just kept burying that grief, deeper and deeper and deeper."

"I'm so sorry, Doctor," says Nyssa.

"That isn't the end of the story, Nyssa. I wish it was. This isn't only about me." He wipes the tears from his cheeks. "I didn't only twist my own life completely out of shape because I couldn't face my own loss. My husband had loved our daughter just as much as I did, and I made it so much worse for him than it was for me, even. He wasn't ever the same man, after. He...I think he must have gone mad, a little, Nyssa. He's going madder all the time. Every time I see him, he..." The Doctor gathers his courage, and looks at Nyssa. "When we were young, you could never have made me believe that he was the kind of man who would destroy a third of the universe. Or murder the father of one of my friends."

Nyssa stares at him, disbelieving, her eyes widening. "Doctor," she whispers. "You don't mean it. You _can't_ mean it."

"I'm sorry, Nyssa," he says, miserable. "I'm so sorry. But I can't...I can't be the one to..." The Doctor shuts his eyes tight again. "Maybe the Master does deserve to die for the crimes he's committed. I don't know. But I can't help feeling that the blame for the things he does is partly mine. I can't help feeling how hypocritical it would be of me to hurt him, or leave him in the hands of others who would hurt him. I don't know what to do about him. It's so unfair to you, Nyssa, I know, but I can't make myself do more than try to stop him causing harm. Not when I'm the one who made him what he is."

Nyssa's face has been frozen in her mask of shock, but suddenly it contorts, flushed with anger. "And that's what you're here to tell me, Doctor?" she asks. "That the man who killed my father is your long-lost husband, and that you want me to—to what? Do you know what it did to me, Doctor, watching him walking around in my father's skin? He took his _body_ , Doctor. And on Logopolis, he even made me think...he pretended..." Nyssa struggles with her words for a moment, and then begins again. "Who is it you want me to pardon, Doctor? Him, or you? Both? Do you expect me to say 'Oh, it's all right then, he's been hurt, let him murder whoever he wants?' 'Oh, you love him, just stand by and let him destroy whatever he likes?' I don't know whether you made him a monster or not, Doctor, but if you could have stopped him and let him go, then you _are_ responsible for what he does. Is it the right thing to let him keep wreaking more and more havoc, destroying more and more lives? How can you do that, and still call yourself a good man?"

"Nyssa," says the Doctor, imploring. "You have to..."

"I have nothing more to say to you, Doctor." She looks at his stricken face. "Maybe someday. But for today...please, give me time. I can't...I don't know what I feel, but I know I can't talk to you about it. Not now. Please go."

The Doctor stands, but he lingers on the way out the door. "I know you'll hate me saying this right now, Nyssa, but listen anyway: the truth is always a gift. Even when it hurts—and it very often does—the truth is always, always better than a lie. Knowing is always better. It's taken me eight hundred years to figure that out, and I haven't always liked knowing it. But the truth is worth knowing." And then the Doctor disappears—not because he's left, but because the Master turns off the screen where he's been watching his stolen Matrix files.

The Doctor thinks the Master is mad. He thinks of him as an albatross around his neck. He thinks of him only with guilt and regret. He cannot even decide whether he believes the Master has a right to _live_. Not even the knowledge that the Doctor no longer blames him for Rose's death, which once would have lifted the weight of the universe from the Master's shoulders, is enough to atone for all of that.

The Master has no idea what he's feeling. Hurt, yes, and confusion. But anger, too. How _dare_ the Doctor condescend to him that way? The Doctor doesn't understand his plans—why should that mean that the Master is crazy? The Master is the sanest person he knows. Everything he does is a part of his grand purpose, in pursuit of his Device and his paradox and his lost family. Surely there's nothing mad about _that_. And how _like_ the Doctor, to assume the worst about his husband. He always has. Every time the Master thinks he comprehends the depths of the Doctor's many betrayals, something like this happens, and it all makes the Master want to...

A moment later, the Master makes a mental note, marked 'Very Important' and affixed with a very large red flag. No matter what his causes for annoyance, kicking his nightstand is _not_ the proper solution. At least, not when he's keeping his TCE there. Because it seems that kicking his nightstand causes said TCE to roll off said nightstand, land on the Master's boot, and turn itself on.

Looking up from his new viewpoint some eight inches above the floor, the Master forgets even the Doctor for a moment. Suddenly, he thinks—hating himself for the phrasing—he has much bigger problems.

*

The Master doesn't _want_ to bring the Doctor into it. He honestly doesn't. But the Master happens only to have psychic sway over one semi-autonomous android in this universe, and he happens to have given that android to the Doctor, as a gift, back in the days when giving gifts to the Doctor was the sort of thing he did. The Master knows all about the planet Sarn and its abundance of numismaton gas from his trips to the Matrix; he tried to get himself there when his body was falling apart, but his damaged TARDIS hadn't been able to make it to this side of the universe. All the Master wants is to use Kamelion to harness those healing flames, so that the Master can be transformed back to his usual size. Then he'll get back to his work. Of course seeing the Doctor isn't an advantage of this plan. It's a _disadvantage_. But really, what else can the Master do? It isn't as though he can trust anyone _else_ to prepare the numismaton flame. Someone who wouldn't be working reluctantly, fighting the Master all the while. Paid help, perhaps, who would do whatever the Master said, not ask questions, and not bring the interfering Doctor along with them.

No. Clearly non-viable. It _has_ to be Kamelion.

Oh, who is the Master trying to kid?

*

The Master thinks that seeing the Doctor again, now, after that brief period of amity, after the almost-reconciliation they almost-had, ought to be different. It isn't. It's just the same as it always is, painful and perfect. It brings the universe into focus, not the blurry unreality that dominates when the Doctor isn't around. He does hate the Doctor, just this moment, as bitterly as he can ever remember doing before. But being with him is still a thing unto itself. It reminds the Master that he's alive.

And then it reminds him how near he walks to death.

The plan goes well enough, the Master supposes. It goes as it must. He does make it into the numismaton flame, feels himself growing strong and tall and whole again.

"I shall come from this fire a thousand times stronger, to hound you to the borders of the universe," the Master taunts his Doctor, who stands across the room by the controls of the machine that keeps the gas in check. And then, suddenly, the fire around the Master isn't the cool blue of numismaton, but bright hot red-gold.

The Master has died in fire before, the very first time he ever learned what death meant. He has no intention of doing so again.

"Cancel the re-injection immediately!" Why doesn't the Doctor move? He's standing stock-still, staring at the Master with wide eyes. The Master's brain is whirring like an engine at speed. It's impossible that the Doctor could mean to let him die, the Master thinks. He'd never do such a thing. But a moment later, the Master remembers that conversation between the Doctor and Nyssa, from those stolen Matrix files. He remembers ' _maybe the Master does deserve to die for the crimes he's committed_ ,' and ' _if you could have stopped him and let him go, then you are responsible for what he does_.'

He doubts. For the first time, the Master is afraid that the Doctor may truly be his enemy.

"Doctor! I'll plague you to the end of time for this. Help me!" The Doctor still won't move. The Master is trapped in this fire, and the Doctor is going to let him stay that way. He's going to stand by and watch the father of his own child burn to death. How can he do this, _how_? "I'll give you anything in creation!" The Master is truly beginning to panic now. "Please!"

The Doctor moves, just the tiniest bit, then. The Master watches his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. The Doctor is staring at the Master, horrified and stricken, but he doesn't reach for the controls, and the Master knows, suddenly, that it's all over. He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry—he remembers how he longed for the Doctor's company when he'd thought he was dying, last body—but he hasn't got time for either. The Doctor isn't enjoying this; thus much is abundantly clear from his face. But his suffering is as nothing to the Master's, as he feels the flames beginning to burn through the temporary protection he has enjoyed after his numismaton bath. And if the Master cannot move the Doctor with pleas, he can twist the knife, make certain that the Doctor cannot pretend to feel nothing at his Master's death.

"Won't you show mercy to your own..."

The Master cannot finish the sentence. The fire takes him in earnest, and he screams and screams as his body dissolves into dust, while the Doctor stands and stares.

*

The Master doesn't know how long he was dead. He doesn't think it can have been very long. Even numismaton isn't all-powerful. There must have been some spark of life remaining in his ashes when the flames turned blue again, or there'd have been nothing to bring back. As it is, the revival is excruciatingly slow, but the Master thinks he can't have been conscious for most of it, and that that was probably a blessing. His brain wasn't sufficiently knitted-together to permit awareness until he had practically all of his skin back. The Master has known worse pain than this. It's difficult to remember as much, as he watches the nails sprout from his fingers and feels his taste buds regrow, but he has, and he's lived through it. He lives through this, too. He sits and stares at his hands until he's left whole again, naked in the blue flame, thinking.

The Doctor just let him die. His Doctor. His husband.

The Master stands, walks calmly to his TARDIS, and closes the door behind him.

*

He is finally making progress. He had better be. He hasn't left his laboratory, except to eat and sleep and bathe, in two years. He hasn't left his TARDIS, or moved it from the Vortex. He hasn't spoken to another living soul. He hasn't even dreamed. He has tampered with his own brain chemistry, specifically to prevent that very phenomenon. He knows that sentient creatures that can't dream don't retain their sanity for long. But according to the Doctor, the Master is mad already, and if that's the case, he may as well not have to be subjected to the sorts of dreams he doesn't want. Not anymore.

The Master has finally got to the core of the problems that have been plaguing him all this time. The power output from a TARDIS heart, the Master has long known, is far from constant. He just hasn't understood that those fluctuations are tied to the organic, living, semi-sentient nature of the TARDIS. The Master can control the power flux to a certain extent, but he's been working with TARDISes all this time specifically _because_ their power is so tremendous. It is an egregious anthropomorphism to say that the spikes in power that caused the explosions of the Master's early prototypes, or the doldrums that have left him with such lackluster output in recent years, have been a matter of how the TARDIS powering the Device was 'feeling' that day. But it is indisputably true that certain facts of a TARDIS Heart's existence affect its performance as an energy-producing machine.

The Master has never had any one TARDIS for very long. It hasn't been by choice. Somebody always seems to be taking his TARDISes away from him, and, as there's always another out there somewhere to steal, the Master doesn't worry about it overmuch. But he's beginning to realize that those frequent changes of address have had an unintended side-effect. Once it occurs to him that the answer to his longstanding technical troubles may lie in keeping the Heart of his TARDIS healthy and happy, he spends months conducting every kind of experiment he can think of, maintaining scrupulous records all the while. By the end of those months, one thing has become clear. TARDISes don't care whether or not one plays them music, or how much and what color lighting is typical in their environment, or whether or not one reads them poetry, in Gallifreyan or French or Raxacoricofallapatorian. Changes in those sorts of conditions accomplish nothing at all. But with every passing day, the fluctuations in power output diminish bit by infinitesimal bit, evening out towards a steadier mean. It doesn't matter _how_ they age; it simply seems that TARDISes, like many other sentient life forms, become calmer and more set in their ways the older they grow.

The problem is, that process of steadying happens at a maddeningly deliberate rate. In six centuries, the Master _might_ be able to trust his TARDIS's Heart to power his paradox. It'd be a millennium before he could begin to be really sure. But the idea of just sitting still and doing nothing for a _thousand years_ is unbearable. And this isn't a problem the Master can just thieve his way out of, either. TARDIS capsules are regularly decommissioned, reprocessed, wiped clean, and substituted for newer models. There simply aren't any TARDISes older than a type seventy-two available in the universe.

Except, the Master thinks with a mental sigh, for one.

*

The Master's first sight of the Doctor's new regeneration hits him harder than he would have expected. He thinks he ought to be glad that the Doctor is no longer in that last body; he thinks it ought to be a relief, not to have to look at that face anymore. Surely it should be easier, dealing with a Doctor whose face he has never seen contorted with ecstasy or gentle with affection or flushed with lust or smooth with sleep. It ought to be less painful, when the Doctor's body isn't one he's worshiped, when he doesn't know what those lips taste of, when that hair holds no immediacy for his fingertips. But instead, the Master is stricken by the most tremendous sense of loss. That Doctor was _his_. There should have been more—there was _meant_ to be more. It shouldn't have ended between them like that, not with death and hatred, agony and pain. It shouldn't have ended that way.

This new Doctor is nothing but a shoddy substitute. The universe can have him back. The Master created that last Doctor, brought him into the world with his own hands, and now, less than a decade later, the Doctor has gone and ruined the Master's handiwork, given someone or something else the privilege of his transformation. The Master seethes with jealousy at the very thought that anyone else might have touched the last Doctor, but someone else _killing_ him is a far worse infidelity. That right belongs to the Master, and no other. This new Doctor is an impostor, cheating the Master of his due. Besides, the Master has known five Doctors so far, and each and every one has found his own individual method of disappointing the Master, letting him down, and breaking his hearts. He's got no use for a sixth.

Once he meets the sixth Doctor, the Master thinks that his resolution not to like the man _ought_ to be easy to keep. Nobody else seems to like him much, even the insufferable Miss Brown. But the Master reacts to something in the Doctor's new persona. The Doctor is no longer a happy and confident person. He behaves like a man who has suffered a disappointment, a man for whom life has been too hard and who takes it out on others because he cannot cope all on his own. And seeing the Doctor like that, prickly and cantankerous, puffed up with braggadocio, makes the Master wonder if the Doctor could really have escaped as unscathed from their dealings during his last regeneration as he had sometimes seemed. Maybe the Master _did_ make this Doctor, after all, even if he wasn't directly responsible for his death.

That first encounter with the sixth Doctor happens, as so many of their meetings do, on Earth, though in a slightly earlier era of its history than they generally frequent. The Master's Matrix access makes tracking the Doctor a laughably easy prospect these days, but he's surprised to find that the Doctor isn't the only Time Lord in that obscure corner of history, and still more shocked to find that the other is someone he knows personally. It's almost good to see Ushas again—the Rani, as she now is. They were friendly rivals in their schooldays, hers the only intellect in their form that could begin to compare to his and Theta's. For a few months the three of them were even proper friends, until Theta and Koschei realized that she only wanted to get close to steal samples of Theta's hair.

"His genetic makeup is absolutely unique! Think of the opportunities you're denying to science!" she'd argued, when they caught her at it. "And it's not as though he'll miss a few strands of hair. Since we're on the subject, I don't suppose a blood sample..."

Koschei and Theta had backed away, slowly but steadily, wearing an expression that the Master, so much older now, has got used to seeing from the other side. He knows that he and the Rani are alike in many ways. They're both scientists with an obsessive devotion to their work. The only difference is, the Master has a very concrete and personal reason for that devotion, whereas the Rani is a scientist for science's sake. Or she is usually. This time, it seems, her experiments are for the sake of her planet. The Master remembers what it's like to be a ruler of primitives, from back when he was exiled in his ninth body. He understands the feeling of responsibility that comes with that connection. It is _almost_ like having children. But the Master has done both, and understands the difference. His cause is infinitely more righteous, infinitely more pure. He cannot let the Rani stand in his way.

The Master succeeds in getting his hands on the Doctor's TARDIS with overwhelming ease, tricking a group of humans into dropping it down a mine shaft where the Master can easily materialize his own TARDIS around it. He knows he ought to simply take the Doctor's TARDIS and go. But here he and the Doctor are, on Earth together. It hardly seems right to go away without trying at least a _little_ scheme for planetary domination. Just a little something. Just to keep up appearances. And, inevitably enough, it all ends with the Master and the Rani hurtling uncontrollably through the Vortex, about to be eaten by a Tyrannosaurus, while the Doctor frolics blithely away, TARDIS returned to him by grateful natives, in that disgusting eyesore of a coat.

 _Never again_ , the Master vows to himself, rolling his eyes with a vengeance. He's too old for this idiocy. _Never again._

*

For seventy-five years, he stays away. He works. He tours the galaxy, collecting scientific advice, and once he's got it, he works. He'll steal the Doctor's TARDIS again, someday, at the last possible moment—once the Device is absolutely perfect, completely ready. And it's very near that state on the day when the Master has an unexpected visitor.

The TARDIS that materializes inside the Master's is not a blue police box. But something, some pseudo-psychic sixth sense niggling about at the back of the Master's mind, insists very loudly that this _is_ the Doctor's TARDIS. He has exactly the same reaction to the tall, dark-haired man in black robes who steps out of that TARDIS and into the Master's control room. The instinct that always screams 'this is the Doctor' every time they meet again after one of the Doctor's regenerations is wailing away like billy-o in the Master's head, and yet every other instinct he's got seems to disprove the notion. This man, his senses tell him, is dangerous—ruthless—heartless—cold as ice. He's everything the Doctor isn't, and yet the Master's Doctor-sense keeps on insisting, and insisting, and insisting.

"You're...what are you?" the Master asks, his brow furrowing with confusion and his hearts racing with fear.

The not-Doctor raises a cool eyebrow. "I might have known you'd be the only one to ask the right question," he says, his voice silky in a way that speaks of poison and daggers in the night. "If I told you I wasn't the Doctor, would you believe me?"

"Yes and no."

He smiles a wicked, tight little smile. "Not only the right question, but the right answer, as well! Very _good_ , Master. You will call me the Valeyard."

"What have you done to the Doctor?" the Master asks, shakily, more terrified of this man by the second, his hackles raising higher and higher.

"Oh," says the Valeyard, with a condescending little smile, "the gallant white knight rushing in to rescue his lady fair, is that it? Look at us, Master—we both play on the black side of the chessboard now."

The Master has no intention of just standing here, being afraid, getting no answers. He pulls his TCE from his pocket and points it at the intruder. "What _are_ you?" he repeats. "What are you doing wearing the Doctor's...Doctor-ness?"

The Valeyard snaps his fingers, and a bolt of energy shoots out of his TARDIS, setting the Master's TCE on fire. He gasps, dropping the weapon, and backing away a step. But once he has done smirking at the Master's distress, the Valeyard condescends to answer the question. "I am what he will be. I am a possible future, one that grows ever more certain each day. With every choice, he steps nearer to me, and further from his old, weak self."

"You're an...an un-actualized regeneration?" It's not an idea the Master has ever heard of before, but he has long since accepted that there are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in his philosophy.

"That's a fitting enough way of putting it. Or, not actualized _yet_. But, as I told you, my time grows nearer every passing day."

"How can you even _exist_?" The Master shakes his head, trying to clear away this sudden nightmare.

"Ah. Now, that is what I came to speak to you about."

"Well?" the Master tries to sound composed.

"Future regenerations...we form a spectrum. The potential within a Time Lord sways in one direction or another as their choices shape their futures. I am the direction the Doctor is swaying. I am the thirteenth self he may yet be."

"That doesn't explain how you're here, at a point in the timestream when that regeneration hasn't occurred yet, talking as though it may not occur at all."

"No," the Valeyard agrees. "It doesn't. And that is where you come in."

"Me? _I_ certainly haven't been meddling with the Doctor's timestream."

"Did you never," asks the Valeyard, "experience a foreshock? An impression, dreamlike and ethereal and yet real, of what your future selves might be?"

"I was never in any one body for long enough to think about the next," says the Master wryly.

The Valeyard sneers. "Typical. Well, perhaps not you. Most Time Lords do. But most Time Lords haven't got such strong brains, or such exceptional supplies of artron energy, as your _Doctor_." The Valeyard spits the name. "He experienced such a premonition. He saw a vision of me, one that so horrified him that he managed to actually _will_ me out of himself, banish my side of his personality. And do you know what it was he saw me doing, Master? What frightened him so horribly he purged a part of himself just to erase it?"

"I have a sneaking suspicion that I'd rather not know."

The Valeyard smiles, catlike, without any hint of warmth. "Right again, Master."

And then, so fast that the Master cannot register the movement, the Valeyard has him pinned against the far wall, and his hand is strangling the life from the Master's throat.

The Master's hands are trapped behind him, up against the wall, and the Valeyard is a larger and a stronger man than he is. The Master's eyes grow wide as he realizes that there is no hope of escape from the merciless hand—in a black leather glove almost identical to his own—that is crushing his windpipe.

"You're a _problem_ , Master," the Valeyard breathes into his ear. " _You_ are what stands in the way of my full potential. The Doctor may not admit it, but I know. Don't you see it? _I_ am what he could become without you. Without you as a foil, his own darker influences can finally have a chance to thrive. The Doctor failed to realize that by casting me from himself he would give me this imitation of individual life. Soon he will die for that mistake—but not before you do. And you, at least, can die knowing that your precious Doctor was willing even to cut out a piece of his own soul in a misguided attempt to save you from himself."

This damned Trakenite body has no respiratory bypass system. Before much longer, the Master's lungs will give out. He's straining for oxygen he simply cannot get, and there's hardly room enough in his mind to permit any other idea. But finally—almost too late—one key word from that speech sinks into his mind.

"Imitation," he wheezes, with his last fragment of breath. And then he closes his eyes, and takes three steps forward, straight through where the Valeyard ought to be, meeting no resistance whatever. He opens his eyes again and turns back, to find the Valeyard staring at him with absolute fury.

"You aren't real," the Master announces, after a few moments gasping for breath. "You're _almost_ real. Real enough to kill me, if I let you. But not if I remember what you really are."

The Valeyard snarls, absolutely vicious, and stalks back to his TARDIS. "You have the most maddening habit of applying your intelligence only when it's least convenient," he snaps. "I may not have life enough to take yours _yet_ , Master. But you haven't seen the last of me." Before the Master can react, the door of the Valeyard's TARDIS has slammed shut, and the screech-wheeze of dematerialization is filling the air. And the Master is left alone, fighting down a Gordian tangle of terror and confusion and arousal and hope, at a complete loss for what to do next.


	9. Chapter 9

After his first meeting with the Valeyard, the Master's initial plan is to find the Doctor, and give him a good hard talking-to about keeping his own future selves, potential and otherwise, in order. Usually, the Master considers himself a disciplined man. But in this case, he doesn't think he can be blamed for being distracted before he actually speaks to the Doctor.

Apparently, the Doctor is on trial for his life. Apparently, he's to be judged by now-Inquisitor Darkel, the Master's old enemy from her days with the CIA. And apparently, he's being prosecuted by none other than the Valeyard.

The Master, safe from his watching place inside the Matrix, figures out the endgame before anyone actually in the courtroom—except, of course, for the Valeyard, who clearly has known it all along. The Master knows what this sinister form of the Doctor wants. He's very familiar with the feeling of living a limited half-life, craving a real body, a real existence. And there's no one who can offer that to the Valeyard but the Time Lords, so they must have come to some kind of arrangement. The Doctor has made himself too important a personage on Gallifrey to be summarily punished, as they did when he was in his second body. Since then he has been named President not once but twice—a development which provoked such a muddle of bitter, proud, and amused reactions from the Master that he's still never been able to properly sort them out. The Time Lords cannot just get rid of the Doctor, problem child though he has always been, without some show of pomp and circumstance. But if they can find some specific, sympathetic reason to punish him, they can strip him of his remaining regenerations and present them to the Valeyard. They'll still have a man with the Doctor's genius, his capacity for saving the day when the perpetually ungrateful Time Lords need it most, but in an older and apparently more sedate form. Clearly, they have no idea of the kind of destruction they could unwittingly unleash.

For as long as he can the Master simply watches the Doctor's trial unfold. He's curious to see how the sixth Doctor will fare against his doppel, and the answer, it seems, is 'not well.' Little as he thought he'd ever admit it, the Master recognizes that there is in fact someone in the universe worse than the Doctor, now, and the Master can't let him get his hands on the Doctor's remaining lives. It'll fall to the Master, it seems, to be the hero this time around. He can't say he minds changing things around a bit, just this once.

"I must intervene," the Master tells the assembled representatives of jurisprudence, peering out at them from inside the Matrix, projected above the courtroom on a screen, "for the sake of..." He lets his gaze linger on the Doctor, the real Doctor, a moment too long. "...justice," he finishes.

"Justice?" the Doctor scoffs. "Pay no attention, madam," he tells Inquisitor Darkel. "He has no concept of what justice is. He'd see me dead tomorrow."

"Gladly, Doctor," says the Master, and then, turning to glare at the Valeyard, "but I'm not prepared to countenance a rival."

*

It does, at least, go better than the _last_ time the Master played the gallant rescuer before a multi-Doctor audience. He doesn't actually get hit over the head, this time. _And_ he gets to make a fool of the High Council of Time Lords, who have been against him for so long. He even gets to have a nice little conversation with the Doctor—not alone, but one cannot have _everything_ —about precisely why he's doing this.

"I want the Valeyard eliminated," the Master tells the Doctor, after the Doctor has stumbled into the Master's console room, accompanied by his favorite human thug, to evade the Valeyard's pursuit. "And you're the most likely candidate to achieve that."

"Hang on," says the onerous and odorous mercenary, Sabalom Glitz, gesturing at the Doctor, "you told me this flashy, fair-haired personage was the one you wanted to croak."

"With the Doctor as my enemy, I always have the advantage." The Doctor gives a scornful laugh, which the Master pushes straight through. "But the Valeyard..." The Master forgets Glitz, as he ought to be forgotten, and turns back to the Doctor. "...a distillation of all that's evil in you, untainted by virtue. A composite of your every dark thought is a different proposition."

If the look in the Doctor's eyes is anything to go by, he has just learned to understand how the Valeyard came to be, realized that it was his own concern for the Master that got them here now. The Master takes advantage of the Doctor's moment of vulnerability and confusion, striding straight into his personal space.

"Additionally, he's infuriated me by threatening to deny me the pleasure of personally bringing about your destruction." It's a real threat, as the Pharos Project taught them both. And at the same time, it's a real promise of protection, against anyone and everything else. "And so he must pay the price." And for once, the Master gets to walk away with the last word, leaving the Doctor alone in the Master's console room.

If the Master could just settle for a victory while he's got it, he'd consider this adventure a complete success. It's just that the sight of a planet in chaos is such a strong appeal to instincts he's not quite learned to turn off, yet. He can't look at Gallifrey, of all places, sitting there undefended and ripe for the plucking—at a moment when the Doctor has other problems in the form of his shadow self—and just _walk away_. He's done his part to rescue the Doctor from the Valeyard. He trusts the Doctor to do the rest on that front. So maybe just a _little_ invasion plot...just for old time's sake...

And this time, it doesn't end with the Rani and a TARDIS flying out-of-control through space. It ends with Glitz, and a TARDIS trapped in stasis in the Matrix. And the Master is still too _fucking_ old for this.

*

There turns out to be an advantage in the Master's failed plot. It puts him in the right place at the right time to be the only man who realizes that the Valeyard is free, and as alive as he ever was to begin with.

The Time Lords, naturally, are less than pleased about the Master's attempted coup. Fortunately, the Master has long since learned his lesson about sensible precautions against capture. Once they pull him from his temporally atrophied TARDIS, the Master allows himself to be led back to the courtroom. As soon as the door is closed, however, flings down the phial of knock-out gas cleverly concealed in his sleeve, smashing it on the ground, and pulls on the gas-mask in his pocket just in time to avoid the effects himself. Dusting off his sleeves and glancing down at the circle of unconscious guards around him, the Master strolls calmly from the courtroom, and into the corridor beyond.

The Doctor has already left their planet, the Master has learned from the guards, and the Valeyard been trapped in the Matrix permanently. There's nothing for the Master to do but get his own TARDIS and get gone. Except, at the other end of the corridor, there is a man in the robes of the Keeper of the Matrix. And when he turns to look at the Master, it isn't the Keeper at all.

The Valeyard and the Master give each other one, long look, and then the Valeyard turns and runs. And the Master knows that his life is about to take a very different path.

*

The Master has always thought that he understood the Doctor very well indeed. But the hundred years he spends fighting the Valeyard across time and space teaches the Master more about the Doctor than he'd ever realized there was to know.

It isn't so much that the Valeyard is a part of the Doctor, or was once. It's a matter of analogy. The Master's been thinking, in recent years, that he and the Doctor were enemies—and before that, rivals—and before that, gentlemanly antagonists. He knows now that they've only ever been little boys, playing war with a pack of human (and Draconian, and Xeraphin, and Sea Devil) cards. He and the Doctor have always had a remarkable capacity to hurt each other, emotionally speaking. But physically, it seems, they've never even started to try.

It isn't like that, with the Valeyard. It isn't like that at all.

The Master has never known what it means to have an opponent who _honestly_ wants to kill him, and who he honestly wants to kill. And it's more than just wanting. The Valeyard sees the Master's destruction as completely crucial to his own plans to acquire the Doctor's lives, a necessary first step. He's fighting for his life, and therefore the Master is, too. They _need_ to destroy each other; neither can rest easy in his bed while the other exists. And they're both brilliant men, and ruthless, and experienced, and dangerous. And their duel is like nothing the Master has ever been a part of before.

This is guerrilla warfare on a universal scale. There are plots within plots within plots, battles within battles within battles. One of them is always running, and one of them is always chasing, but they take it in turns, a matter of who happens at that moment to be most in need of space to lick his wounds. The collateral damage is enormous. In that century, the Master destroys seventeen planets, four of them inhabited by sentient life, and an additional eight suns. The Valeyard has fewer scruples—an entire _galaxy_ falls under his hand, albeit a smallish sort of one. Hairsbreadth escapes become run of the mill, a weekly occurrence. Traps are hidden everywhere. Each of them succeeds in poisoning the other at least twice, though both manage to obtain antidotes in time. The Master is nearly trapped in a fire, nearly stabbed to death, nearly drowned, nearly garroted, nearly defenestrated, nearly decapitated, nearly exploded by so many nuclear weapons he entirely loses count. He nearly takes an assegai through the belly, is nearly left drifting through the emptiness of space, is nearly stung to death by a swarm of something like mosquitoes and, on another occasion, by a swarm of something like wasps. He does lose a hand, replacing it with an indistinguishable mechanical copy, but in their next encounter he has his revenge, blinding the Valeyard with a flask of acid to the eyes. And still, they always get away. No matter what else happens, they always get away.

In that respect, it's just like fighting the Doctor. In every other way, it's something new. And that's how the Master learns what they really are to each other, he and his Doctor. They aren't enemies. They've never been enemies, not even when he let the Doctor die, or when the Doctor returned the favor. They are what they have always been: partners in a very, very dysfunctional romance. Because, for some unbelievably twisted, inexpressibly fucked-up definition of the word, everything the Doctor and the Master do to each other is a product of love.

There is no love between the Valeyard and the Master. On the Valeyard's part, it's because he is, specifically and by his very nature, the part of the Doctor that hates the Master. On the Master's part, it's because there's still a real Doctor out there somewhere, and the Master doesn't have room in him to feel that way about two men at once. Lust, however, is another matter entirely, and that instinctive, animal reaction remains in spite of anything either of them can do. It's not that they ever actually flirt, much less fuck, much less _kiss_. But one evening on Cinethon they catch each other in a dark alley, far from anyone, and neither of them is fast enough to avoid the other's knife between his ribs. And there's a moment when their bodies are pressed together, closer than lovers, and the Master's pulse is pounding in his ears, and his own blood is oozing between his fingers, and the Valeyard's eyes, when they meet the Master's, are black with pain and desire, and the Master thinks that he could probably have the best sex of his life there, against a brick wall in a rainy alley, bloody and battered, with this man he hates more than anything, if only he were willing to die for the privilege.

He isn't, of course, and so he believes as hard as he can that the Valeyard isn't real, and the knife falls out of the Valeyard's hand, and the one in the Master's is suddenly sticking in nothing. It's a very odd phenomenon, they've both learned, the Valeyard's putative non-existence. At any given moment they must both of them believe that he's a physical being to make it so. If either one of them held exclusive control over that power, it would have been fatal to the other long ago. But as it is, the Master can make up for the inferiority of his Trakenite form—which will take much longer to heal from his own wound than the Valeyard's Time Lord body will from his—by willing his antagonist non-existent, so that he cannot hurt the Master again tonight. And when, after the Master has run like hell to the mouth of that alley and started believing in the Valeyard again, he pulls out his gun, the bullet that he shoots passes right through the Valeyard, because the Valeyard has stopped believing in himself. It's a dizzying mess of possibility and impossibility, confusing even to men of their intellects at times, but at bottom, it means that, at any given moment, either they can each hurt the other, or neither of them can be hurt at all. And that ultimate defense mechanism, jointly available to the both of them, is what keeps them at a stalemate for so many long decades, balanced on the cliff-edge together and yet jointly unable to fall.

*

It takes far longer than it ought to for the Master to remember that any problem is usually synonymous with its own solution.

The most important thing to do, the Master decides, is pin the Valeyard down in physical form. The Master will have to tie him, bind him to his own flesh, before this contest can finally come to its inevitable end. The Valeyard's greatest asset is his eminently rational mind. If the Master can make him something purely physical, something animal, he'll have destroyed him already.

The Cheetah Planet hasn't even got a proper name, because it's a place people go and don't come back. The Master has spent an enormous number of hours these past decades in combing through stolen Matrix data in search of an advantage—just as he knows the Valeyard has done, because surely such a clever man wouldn't have spent so much time in the Matrix without squirreling something away. But even so, the Cheetah people are an odd find, a bit of information that doesn't seem to belong even in the greatest repository of knowledge the universe has ever known, an obscure factoid wedged in a tiny corner of data and forgotten about. That place and its race are one of the true secrets in life, and as secrets of life go, 'feline humanoid savages sequestered on a planet perpetually tearing itself apart' isn't as disappointing as it might be. Because, the Master decides, it's the unexpected plans, the frankly insane and bizarre, that tend actually to get results. The best laid plans of mice and Time Lords aft gang agley, but the worst laid have a ridiculous habit of working out fine. And if every other method of killing the Valeyard has already failed him, he may as well try this as anything else.

The Master likes the fact that it is, at bottom, a game of chance. Once he contrives to get the both of them stranded on this world— which requires any number of elaborate traps including, most terrifying of all, a separation from his own TARDIS—it's only a matter of who's infected first. One of them will end up a practically mindless savage, transforming into an animal before his own eyes, and the other will take that opportunity to shoot him dead as dead. It may work out either way. Their willpower will be sufficient to hold off the Cheetah virus for some while, after the first sign of infection. But eventually one of them will be too far gone to remember that the Valeyard isn't a real man. Either it will be the Master, and the Valeyard will believe himself solid long enough to murder his worst enemy, or it'll be the Master, and he'll believe the Valeyard solid long enough to murder _his_ worst enemy. Soon one of them will be fighting with his claws, and the other with a small arsenal of firearms, explosives and chemical weapons. Whoever loses his mind first doesn't stand a chance.

Except, when the end does come, it isn't so neat as that, because they've both of them got exceptional minds, and, even though the Valeyard is the first to go green-eyed, he holds out against that control until long after the Master's been infected too. And so when the fight does come, the inevitable final battle, the Doctor's two closest enemies killing each other for his sake, it isn't clean and simple. By the time the Valeyard forgets who he is, the Master is animal enough himself that his primal side screeches for a satisfying kill. He doesn't just want to see the Valeyard dead. He wants to rip his throat out with his own teeth, and knows that's precisely what the Valeyard wants to do to him. And for a while—for a long time—for nearly _too_ long a time, they leave weapons be. The only weapons they use, the only ones they need, are strong arms and heavy boots and sharp fingernails.

In one of his saner moments, the Master remembers that this is what their first encounter was like, nothing but the Valeyard's hands on his throat, and feels the wholeness of that, the settled rightness of it. And then he remembers that he nearly died that time, and how strong the Valeyard is, and is afraid for the first time. He hesitates, and the Valeyard takes advantage, and once again those hands are throttling the life from the Master. But the difference, this time, is that the sharp metal stab of fear into his mind has been enough to remind the Master that this isn't the only way to kill or to die. And so instead of trying to escape from the Valeyard's hands, the Master reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pistol, and puts one bullet into each of the Valeyard's hearts, and then another pair, just to be sure.

The Valeyard's eyes go very, very wide, and in an instant they snap back from green to grey, awareness and horror spreading over his features. He collapses, all at once, and the Master struggles to sit up, the Valeyard heavy on top of him. He almost manages it, but is left with the Valeyard's head in his lap, staring up at the Master. The Valeyard holds the Master's eyes, forcing the Master to watch every instant of his shock and terror as he tries to breathe through collapsed lungs, as more and more of his blood flows out of him, soaking his own robes and the Master's suit and darkening the dusty earth beneath them. The Valeyard manages to lift his shaking arms, wraps them tight around the Master's middle, and the Master holds him, and they cannot stop staring at each other, the Master's eyes just as wide as the Valeyard's now. They don't stop staring until the moment when the Valeyard goes still, and his eyelids close for the last time, and his head drops.

It should be satisfying. It is exactly the opposite of satisfying.

The Master is trembling. "Doctor," he whispers, and bows his own head, resting it on the Valeyard's in his lap. "My Doctor."

They stay that way until long after the sun has set, and the Valeyard's blood grown dry and clotted on the Master's skin.

*

Many years later, when the Master considers the question of when he actually went mad, he usually settles on the day he killed the Valeyard. He understands that he wasn't ever really right any time after Rose's death, and that his stint in his thirteenth body made things far worse, and that even so his insanity didn't really start to show until after the War. But the problem with that day, the Master thinks, was that never in his life was he ever so sane as then, holding the Valeyard's corpse in the cold, cold night, everything he'd ever done suddenly clear in his own mind.

The Master is too old for _this_ , too, but in a very, very different kind of way.

*

The Master hasn't seen the real Doctor in all the years he and the Valeyard have been fighting. It doesn't occur to him until afterwards to wonder how that could possibly be. Here the Master and the Valeyard have been, tearing up the universe, wreaking exactly the kind of mayhem and destruction that is usually guaranteed to draw the Doctor in like a moth to the flame, and in a century he hasn't so much as phoned.

Then the Master does meet the Doctor—the new Doctor, the seventh one—and he understands.

The Master is beginning to accept the Valeyard's claim that he was what the Doctor could become without the Master. There is something colder in this Doctor, calculating and shrewd, and if that's what the Doctor is like after only a century away from him, the Master can't imagine how changed he'd be after another hundred years, or another hundred still. There's a weariness in him now that the Master responds to. It's been weariness, inertia, that kept the Master here on the Cheetah Planet instead of fighting for a way out, back to his TARDIS, back to his paradox and his pursuit of the Doctor and the life he led before the Valeyard. He doesn't think he's been here very long, true, but the Master of days gone by would have been tearing down the walls of this prison of a planet within half-an-hour of achieving what he came to do. Whereas the newer, older Master has stayed still, for what may have been days and may have been months, until the Doctor stumbled into his grasp.

If it had been the fifth Doctor, the Master thinks he would probably have admitted frankly that he's tired of fighting, told him the whole story, and made a heartfelt plea for long-overdue reconciliation. If it had been the sixth, the Master would have met his bluster in kind, returned every teasing swipe, and remembered that sometimes, fighting is playing, and playing is good for the soul. But it's the seventh Doctor who finds him, and, by the time the Master learns to understand him, he realizes that the Doctor has known all along. The Doctor has known precisely what the Master and the Valeyard were up to, all this time, and he's just _stood back and let it happen_ , because that's the kind of man the Doctor is, now. The Valeyard was a problem for him, and the Master has always been a problem for him, and this Doctor was more than content to stand to one side and let one of his problems take care of the other, and it all makes the Master so _angry_ , and so very, very tired. And so with this Doctor, the Master doesn't confess, nor does he squabble. He drags the Doctor into the stone circle in the middle of the Cheetah encampment, and wraps one black leather-gloved hand around the Doctor's throat.

Whichever of them wins this fight, this planet they're on is about to tear itself in half. Whoever solves the man who's been his problem, he won't be his own problem for long. There will finally be an end to them. There will be an end to the both of them. The Master wants that. The Master is so, so _tired_.

He is within moments of destroying the only thing in the universe that means anything at all to him, when there is a blinding flash of light. The Master blinks, and when opens his eyes again he is surrounded by a circle of men and women in black and white robes, under a sky blazing with the light of two red suns.

"What just...what?" asks the Master, and collapses.

*

The Celestial Intervention Agency, as it turns out, knows how to cure the Cheetah virus. The Master supposes that shouldn't surprise him; the CIA knows almost everything. It surprises him anyway. Somehow, the cure doesn't do anything for the Master's eyes—they'll be green for as long as this body lives. Unlike the eyes, however, the savagery that had infested the Master does fade. The years and the deeds of his life still weigh heavy on him, to a degree they never did before. But the urge to kill has faded, and so has the urge to die.

On that last point, the CIA doesn't seem inclined to oblige him.

When the Master learns what they are planning to do to him, he doesn't believe it, at first. "You _must_ be joking," he tells Narvin—who is now, it seems, _second-in-command_ of this absurd Agency.

"I have been accused of lacking a sense of humor, Master, but I could certainly come up with a better joke than that."

"Either you're joking, or you're even more of an idiot than I always thought, and I wasn't certain that was _possible_. Please, Narvin, tell me you're joking. Atomize me yourself, if you like. It's not that I object to you trying to kill me. Well, no, of course I object to you trying to kill me, but my point is, your lot putting me on trial and executing me is nothing to sending me to the Daleks, and letting _them_ put me on trial and execute me."

"I'd have thought one death was very much like another, from your perspective."

"How dim _are_ you? Do you realize what an acknowledgement it is, to give the Daleks _permission_ to kill a Time Lord? Do you realize what kind of figurehead you'll make them? You ought to know better than most that Gallifrey has enemies, Narvin. You'll unite them under the leadership of a race of completely ruthless murdering machines. At best you'll drag Gallifrey's reputation into the dust, and at worst you'll have an intergalactic war on your hands!"

"An intergalactic war is precisely what we're attempting to avoid. The Daleks have the potential to become a real threat to the universe, Master. But if they're properly appeased, it'll never get that far."

"What would possibly make you believe that? Their sole purpose in life is conquest. It's what they live for. Do you really believe that I'm a sufficient offering to change the very nature of an entire species? I'm flattered by your confidence, Narvin, but really. Talk to Vansell. Convince him to have me tried here. _Think_ what you're doing."

"I have already done so—and I'm not inclined to revise my opinion based on _your_ assessment of the situation. You're hardly an impartial observer, are you?"

"No," says the Master, grimly, "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Narvin doesn't try to answer that. He just sweeps from the Master's cell, leaving the Master wondering how a species of such congenital idiots could possibly ever have produced such a genius as himself.

*

The Master doesn't really pay attention at his trial. The outcome is a foregone conclusion, the charges are uninteresting, and if he listens too hard for too long to the Daleks, he ends up with the most terrible headaches from all that shrieking. He busies himself instead with forcing himself not to panic, as memories of his last visit to the Daleks threaten to rob him of his dignity, and with working out the precise wording of his final request.

"The Doctor will be granted safe passage to and from Skaro, on the evenings before and after my execution, respectively. Neither he nor his TARDIS is to be harmed, molested, killed, tracked, bugged, threatened or tampered-with in any way, nor will he be denied food, water, or medical attention should he require them during his stay. He will be permitted to spend my last evening in my cell with me, and will take my remains back to Gallifrey with him after my execution."

It's the Time Lords he depends upon to see that wish fulfilled. The Daleks, savage monsters that they are, have no such custom of catering to prisoners, but there has been a quiet contingent of CIA agents present all the time at the Master's trial, and they are at least civilized enough to see that a dying man has his husband with him on his last night. Of course, the Master has no intention that it should _be_ his last night, but the Time Lords needn't know as much.

The only question is whether or not the Doctor will actually come. The Master gives it even odds. And so he's not precisely _expecting_ the Doctor to show up, but isn't shocked when he does, either.

"Will you refrain," the Doctor rolls the second R, fondling it indecently in his mouth, "from prodding me with that arm of yours? I seem to recall something in my contract about not being molested, you mealy-minded metal-meloned menace."

"YOU WILL BE SIL-ENT, DOC-TOR," says the Dalek with him, as it opens the door to the Master's cell.

"Oh, now, does that sound like me? Surely your species knows me well enough by now not to expect that sort of impossibility," the Doctor scoffs. "Here," the Doctor plops his hat atop the Dalek's dome, and then hangs his umbrella from its manipulator arm. "You take good care of those, or I'll be very put-out indeed. You know, you look almost _stylish_ that way. Perhaps you should consider adopting a new dress code? Very good for morale, they say, looking one's best. I always look my best, so I wouldn't know the difference, would I?"

Before the Dalek can answer, the Doctor has slipped into the Master's cell, and closed the door behind him.

"Doctor," says the Master, uncurling from where he has been sitting, cross-legged, on his sparse prison bed, and standing. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Is it really?" the Doctor asks. He moves to the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, and assumes precisely the same position the Master just left, tucking his legs underneath him. "And why should that be? I was under the impression that you had specifically requested my presence."

The Master sits, too, but keeps his feet planted on the floor. "Oh, I did, Doctor. But given the circumstances of our last meeting, I wasn't certain whether or not you would come."

"You were ill, then, and you aren't now. Besides, the Time Lords didn't give me much choice," says the Doctor, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands. "Very persuasive, our species."

"You could have got away from them, if you really wanted to," the Master points out.

"Could I?" asks the Doctor, with a little smile. "Well, perhaps."

"Which leads me to the inevitable conclusion," continues the Master, smirking, "that you _wanted_ to see me."

The Doctor holds the Master's eyes, suddenly serious. "Perhaps I've learned that refusing to say goodbye never actually helps."

The Master's eyebrows fight to raise, but he manages to keep one of them down, settling for skepticism. "Goodbye, Doctor?"

"You _are_ scheduled to be executed tomorrow."

"Ah. Yes. That."

The Doctor smiles then, a tiny, covert smile, one that implies he's just had a suspicion confirmed, and the Master returns it in kind. Then he thinks of something.

"Speaking of not saying goodbye," he says, and then, pulling the pillow from the end of his cot, bashes the Doctor on the head with it. " _That_ was for Susan. It'd be something much harder, if I had it."

"Ah," says the Doctor. "I was wondering how many hundreds of years it'd take us to get to that."

"There always seemed to be something else going on until now," the Master admits. "I should have thrashed you for that one centuries ago."

"My first body was getting a little feeble in the head, by then," the Doctor grants. "I realized what an imbecile I'd been, leaving her on Earth, as soon as I got into my next one. Once I had any control over my TARDIS, I went looking for her. But you'd already taken her home."

"And?" prompts the Master.

"And?" the Doctor asks.

"I think the words you're looking for are, 'Thank you, Master, for saving our granddaughter from a life trapped on a planet of primitives, even at the cost of regeneration, humiliation and exile.'"

"If you know them already, then why do you need me to say them? I suppose you think I owe you."

"No," says the Master, surprising them both. "I didn't do it for you."

The Doctor looks at the Master with real respect, an expression the Master hasn't seen on his face in a very long time, and nods.

"Of course," the Master continues, "if perhaps you _wanted_ to swoop in and snatch me out of the path of a Dalek firing squad in about twelve hours, just as a gesture of gratitude..."

The Doctor shakes his head, gently. "I can't, Master. I'm sorry."

It's the first time the Doctor has said his name tonight. The Master is always conscious of the first time, in any given encounter. And from there, he counts. When he averages one 'Master' per decade, he considers a century well-spent. He gained a surfeit during the fifth Doctor's short life, but not enough to atone for the privations that came before and have come since.

"Well, if you're not Time Lord enough..." the Master tease-taunts.

"I mean it, Master," the Doctor says. He pulls the pillow from the Master's hands, plumps it, and deposits it back at the head of the bed. Then he stretches out full-length, on his side, head propped up on his hand. It's a shockingly intimate gesture, leaving the Master completely at a loss. "The consequences for the universe would be catastrophic. The Daleks would take it as an act of war."

"You've been in a personal war with the Daleks for centuries, Doctor," the Master points out. He hesitates for a moment, and then, tentatively, stretches out beside the Doctor, facing him. "That would be nothing new."

"Yes," the Doctor grants. "But it's been just that: personal. This whole farce is the Time Lords' way of distancing themselves from me, and from you. I'd never have supported this plan to begin with—any more than you did, I'm sure. But now those lackwits have gone and given you to the Daleks, it's too late for me to do anything about it without setting the Time Lords and the Daleks at war. I'm sorry, Master. Honestly, I am."

The Master looks away. "I shouldn't be surprised. You've left me to die before," he mutters, resentfully.

"Master..."

"I killed your Valeyard for you," the Master interrupts, not wanting to hear the Doctor's explanations and excuses.

"I know," says the Doctor, softly.

"Which was exactly what you meant for me to do."

"Yes."

"Do your dirty work for you," the Master says, his voice hard, "so you could keep your precious hands clean."

"They don't feel clean." The Doctor sounds exhausted, just exactly the way the Master has been feeling all this while. It's enough to stop the Master snapping a retort. "He was a part of me, Master. I couldn't kill him. And I didn't have as much reason to as you did. The two of you _were_ natural enemies. He was the part of me that hated you."

The Master shakes his head. "No. He wasn't. I didn't realize that until the end. He was only the part of you that wanted to kill me. I understand the distinction." He looks away, remembering the Valeyard's eyes as he was dying, and then back up at the Doctor. "No part of you has ever actually hated me."

"It depends, my dear Master, on your definition of hate," the Doctor grants. "But whatever he was," the Doctor's eyes go intense, "he isn't a part of me any longer."

The Master doesn't trust those eyes. _All my bad feelings for you died with the Valeyard,_ they seem to be saying, but the Master does not and cannot trust. He knows full well that it can't be that simple. The Doctor may have exorcised his murderous instincts, but that's never been what actually stood between them. "That isn't the same thing as forgiving me," he says, quietly.

The Doctor opens his mouth, slightly, and then shuts it again. Neither of them tries to meet the other's eyes. There is a long span of awkward silence, and then the Doctor says, "Have you realized what day it is, yet?"

The Master frowns. "What..." And then he actually thinks about it, and it comes to him, and the only thing to do is laugh.

"Our birthday," he says, laughing himself almost to tears. "A thousand years old today. Oh, that's just _perfect_."

Time Tots are de-loomed in batches, once every few years. All of the rest of their form at the Academy had shared the same birthday. That the Doctor had, too, however, was the sheerest coincidence. The Doctor wasn't loomed. He was born, carried as a foetus inside his mother's body, a bizarre concept that has always made the Master just a little queasy, no matter how he feels about the Doctor as a man. But by some trick of fate, the Doctor had been clever enough to choose precisely the proper day to make his exodus from the womb, screaming his first in the very same hour as his husband. He is precisely eighteen minutes younger than the Master, a fact with which the Master had teased him all throughout their childhood. Now, he thinks the Doctor's very lucky to be the younger of them. He's got eighteen minutes less of the universe on his shoulders.

"Rather fitting, I thought," says the Doctor, grinning.

"There's a human custom, you know," says the Master, leering, which is an impressive feat while stretched out in bed, "of giving spankings on birthdays."

"A thousand of them would get rather tedious," the Doctor points out.

"We've got no cake, no candles, and certainly no living fireworks to make a proper Gallifreyan millennial of it. Have you got a better idea for methods of celebration?"

The Doctor considers for a moment. "Yes," he says finally, with decision, and, leaning forward, kisses the Master on the mouth, confident and hard. After a moment the Doctor pulls away again, murmurs, " _da mi basia mille_ ," and before the Master has time to do anything but wonder why he's said it in Latin, the Doctor is kissing him again.

The Master has no idea how he feels about this development. He knows that he must feel _something_ , and he thinks that the trouble is he's experiencing two entirely opposite emotions at the same time. On the one hand, this is the thing he wants most of all. It's what he's always wanted. And on the other hand, the last time they tried this, it had ended so disastrously, and the Master doesn't ever want to feel like that again. He's not sure he _can_ feel like that again.

"Doctor," the Master says, somewhere between kisses that he doesn't resist, "I think I'd rather you didn't."

The Doctor doesn't stop kissing him. _Why?_ he asks, telepathically, instead.

 _You're only doing this because you're feeling old, and because I'm theoretically a dead man in a few hours. I need better from you, Doctor. If you really want me, rescue me in the morning. If you really want me, save this until tomorrow._ He's still drinking in the Doctor's kisses, not fighting them, and it's becoming more and more difficult to resist wrapping his arms around the Doctor and properly kissing him back.

 _Master,_ says the Doctor, _don't be a fool._ And before the Master can reply, the Doctor slides fully inside the Master's mind through the unbolted door of his mental defenses, filling his head with everything that is the Doctor.

The Master groans. _God_ , but that's good. It's been too long, just like it's always been too long, every time they do this. It's been too long, and he can't help himself. He pushes into the Doctor's mind in his turn, rolls the Doctor underneath him, and kisses him with all the fire he has been keeping at bay all this while. He strips off the Doctor's clothes, and lets the Doctor see to his, and kisses him what must be at _least_ a thousand times, all over this small body. And when he gets as far as the Doctor's cock, the Doctor wriggles around, suddenly, so they are facing in opposite directions, and slips the Master's cock into his mouth, too. They suck and lick and bob their heads in time—sometimes focusing on pleasuring, and sometimes on being pleasured, and sometimes on playing with that pleasure inside each other's minds, spinning it out into something fantastical and bright-hot, and then into something explosive and beautiful. The Master comes first, spilling into that perfect heat, and then he feels the Doctor rolling him onto his stomach, and spreading his legs. He's too spent to object as the Doctor presses into him, fucks him long and slow, until the Master is hard and wanting all over again. The Doctor is sending darts and spikes of pleasure directly into every pleasure center of the Master's brain, a relentless barrage of sensation, and the Master isn't surprised when he hits another orgasm just before the Doctor finally gives in and comes, groaning against the Master's neck.

The Master's cell has no windows, but he's a Time Lord. He doesn't need a view of the sun to know that it's almost dawn. He should be tired, but for once he isn't, and is vaguely expecting that the Doctor will be just as wide awake. Instead, the Doctor curls himself into a ball, facing the Master on the pillows, and falls asleep almost at once. For a moment, the Master resents that. And then he laughs to himself, very quietly. If he's going to waste energy being annoyed with the Doctor for something as insignificant as _that_ , how's he going to get anything done in this life? So he leans in and kisses the Doctor's temple, lingering self-indulgently in this moment when the Doctor cannot know, and then settles back in bed, awaiting the morning to come.

*

Their lives, the Master thinks, watching the Doctor sleep, have become an endless chain of 'almost's. Days they almost understood each other. Chances that almost worked out. Opportunities that they almost avoided throwing away. And in a few hours, he supposes, another occasion when they almost managed to save each other, from themselves and the wider world.

He is very, very sick of almost.

*

Within a few hours, the Dalek returns to take the Doctor away. The Doctor shakes his hand as he's leaving.

"Goodbye, Master."

"You know better than that, Doctor."

The Doctor's lips quirk. "All right, then— _au revoir_."

The Master grins, hoping the Dalek at the door doesn't speak French. And then the Doctor is gone, and the Master left alone for the few minutes remaining before his execution.

The Master knows there's nothing to be afraid of—or, at least, he has very good reason to hope not. He and the Mara had met more or less by accident on one of the Master's fact-finding tours, not long after the incident on Sarn, and they'd got on like a house on fire. Sure, it was a being of pure evil, but what reason was that to judge it harshly? It had been nothing but courteous to the Master. As a being that fed on fear, it had declared the Master a natural ally, and the Master had been positively flattered by the comparison. The Master has had many allies over the years, few for long, but has never known one as generous as the Mara, and theirs hadn't even been a formal bargain. It had been more in the nature of a gift.

"So long as you roam the universe, my friend," the Mara hissed, "there will always be a place for me. I have no desire to lose you when this fragile shell expires."

The Mara had promised the Master an escape from almost any kind of death, one he had gladly accepted, especially with the memory of his last fading body so fresh in his mind. The Master has the usual sensible scruples about presents with no strings attached, but the possibility was too good to refuse. And it had hardly been a perfect sort of gift. It isn't as though the Master will simply spring back to life. But after he dies, he'll be granted a transitional form: something unstable and short-lived, yes, but around for what _should_ be long enough for him to steal a better new body. Death won't be anything fun, but it won't be the Master's very last chance, either. He's lost sight of his great goal, his Device and his paradox, in these recent years, but he'll have more years yet to make those dreams a reality.

And so, as he awaits the Dalek firing squad, the Master's biggest concern isn't the actual prospect of dying. It's the remembrance of the Mara's favorite form, and the realization that he never reset the default controls on his back-up mortality plan.

The Master has the most horrible feeling that he is about to come back to life as an enormous psychic reptile.


	10. Chapter 10

The Master recalls the _basics_ , when he's a reptile/human/Time Lord hybrid mess. He remembers that perfectly sweet, loving lines like "you are my life" and "I want your body" are just the sort of thing to use on a pretty Doctor like this new one. The context just gets a little lost in translation, that's all. Who could blame the Master's brain being a little muddled, at a moment like this, in regenerative crisis and then some? He certainly doesn't blame _himself_ , afterwards, for nearly stealing the Doctor's lives. Then again, he avoids thinking about his brief stunt as a human (and an American at that) as strenuously as possible, so maybe that lack of self-reproach isn't surprising.

Falling into the Eye of Harmony and being trapped in a state of stasis that bears a suspicious resemblance to death isn't exactly an optimal solution, but, to tell the truth, the Master is grateful for anything that puts this mortifying chapter of his lives behind him as soon as possible. As the Eye is sucking him in, he doesn't even panic.

Death is never _really_ death.

*

Many, many years afterwards, the Master will learn how his android form came to be built—but not from the Doctor. The source of that bit of insight is completely unexpected, one of those little consolation prizes the universe occasionally flings in the direction of a man who has been disappointed in everything else. True, the only reason the Master is poking around in the mind of this particular prisoner is in hopes of unearthing some interesting tidbit about the Doctor's years without him, but that's not really what he expects to find behind a great number of very large padlocks in a dusty corner of the man's brain. It's just that the Master has never been able to resist a door marked 'DO NOT ENTER' any more than the Doctor can.

That's where they usually keep the really, really dangerous stuff, after all.

The Master doesn't pride himself on his psychic abilities for nothing. He's past those protections and into a part of this man's memory he doesn't even know he's got in two shakes of a myrka's tail. He almost leaves as quickly as he came. This is boring as only the sort of thing the Time Agency considers Top Secret can be boring, a mission to destroy the plans for some very, very shiny weapons that the Master thinks ought to have had a chance to live and grow and thrive. Unfortunately, the ex-Time Agent whose brain he's ransacking never got so much as a peep at the plans in question, so the Master cannot make himself the liberator of all that lovely potential-for-violence. But just as he's about to abandon the locked room as a lost cause, he catches a glimpse of a scene at the very tail end of that hidden set of memories that makes him glad he bothered, after all.

The Master always finds it disconcerting, looking through someone else's eyes, and doubly so when he's looking at the _Doctor_ through someone else's eyes. This particular Doctor is one the Master never knew well, to his deep regret. The softer Doctors always bring out such strong emotions in the Master; whether he wants to preserve that apparent naivety or to shatter it violently tends to depend on the day. He'd have liked to have a chance to stroke the softness of those honey-colored curls, and see that lovely mouth curl in pain as he yanked. He'd have liked to suck that pale skin into his mouth, leaving a trail of purple marks in fittingly artistic patterns. But the Master never even had a proper body during his short time with this Doctor, and he thinks perhaps that he'll kill the man whose head he's in (again, and maybe more than once) for experiencing what the Master never could.

This Doctor, with his velvet jacket and silk cravat, looked an oddity almost everywhere he went, but the scene in this memory is particularly strange. He's sitting at the end of a dingy bar, staring gloomily into a glass of something tawny that bubbles in a desultory fashion, as though it simply can't be arsed. The Master can tell that the man whose head he's in—who called himself anything _but_ Captain Jack Harkness, at the time—had indulged in a good long stare at the Doctor, by the way the metaphorical camera of Jack's memory remains on him, and the Master decides he'll definitely be killing him as soon as he's done watching.

Jack, predictably enough, doesn't waste much time with shyness. He's on the stool beside the Doctor in under a minute. "Forgive me mentioning it, but you've got far too much going for you to look so blue," says Jack, and the Master winces at the cheesiness of it. He's going to have to spend a whole day killing the freak, at this rate. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I've already got one," the Doctor points out, clearly only half-listening.

"You look like you could maybe use another."

"What for?" The Master approves of this Doctor's obliviousness. Maybe he'll give the newer model a few years of youth back, as a present.

"To keep this one company?" the so-called Captain suggests, sliding a little nearer. "I find things are always cozier with two. Or three, if you'd prefer. Or more, if you're really feeling ambitious."

"I think one is quite sufficient, thank you," says the Doctor, still staring. "This one is abysmal enough as it is."

"You sound like a man with something on his mind." The Master gives Jack credit for knowing when to change tacks. That isn't going to save him from any of the pain that's coming to him, but the Master gives him credit, all the same. "Would a friendly ear help?" Jack leans in even closer, resting his hand near the Doctor's on the bar. "Would anything else help?" he murmurs lowly.

"It's my one-thousandth anniversary," says the Doctor. He sounds absolutely miserable.

"Mazel tov!" Jack sounds shockingly chipper for a man who's just discovered that the being he was flirting with is both married and upwards of a millennium old. "That's pretty damned impressive."

"Oh, not really," says the Doctor, absently. For the first time, he lifts his mug and drinks a sip. He pulls a face, and sets it hastily back down again. "There's not much to it, once you get the hang of it. Being married, that is. All you have to do is start, and after that you can't really help it, can you?"

"I'll take your word for it," Jack grins. "I'm not really the marrying type."

The Doctor takes another swig, this time too distracted to notice the taste. "Wise man," says the Doctor. "It's fairly rubbish, when it comes down to it. Well, not always. Maybe not even most of the time. Sometimes, it's a little bit along the lines of magnificent, as a matter of fact." The Doctor stares at his drink for a moment, frowning, then downs the rest of it in one go. "And then they go and fall into the Eye of Harmony, and make you feel like it's all your fault in the first place for not rescuing them from a Dalek firing squad last death around. How was _I_ supposed to know he didn't have a better back-up plan than 'ectoplasmic snake'? _Really_? My husband..." the Doctor trails off. "Weren't you buying me a drink? Something strong, please."

If the delay is anything to judge by, Captain Harkness has been more than a little lost by the many twistings and turnings of the Doctor's sudden monologue. But he seems to have grasped the parts where the Doctor's spouse is dead, and where he's just been given permission to buy the Doctor a drink, and the Master watches him decide that 'crazy' doesn't sufficiently outweigh 'pretty' to stop him waving down the barkeep.

"My husband," the Doctor resumes, "was always the obsessively prepared type." The Master scoffs. "When our daughter was a baby, he wouldn't so much as take her on a walk without her entire nursery in a dimensionally transcendental diaper bag."

"And tell me, Doctor, did it ever hurt?" the Master asks the memory in front of him.

"...and so naturally I thought he must have a better plan than _that_. Of all the things he never liked, dying was pretty high on the list. I don't see how he can go and blame me for his own shoddy precautions. Well, except..." the Doctor hesitates. His drink has arrived. He absently pulls out the umbrella, and sticks it in his lapel. "...except, I do have a little bit of a reputation in the rescuing business. I get up to rather a lot of that sort of thing, truth be told. And the Daleks and I don't get along altogether well in the first place. And well, I suppose...I suppose it would have been rather...well. I might have saved him. He had no reason to expect it, but...for old time's sake, it might not have been the worst idea in the whole universe. But on the other hand, then he'd be here, alive, possibly still in that awful American body, and that would be no good, either. I mean, more likely it'd have been the Trakenite, and...oh, I do miss the velvet. And the leering. And the rubbish goatee. But it _might_ have been the American. So perhaps it's for the best."

"I think that's a very healthy attitude." Jack sounds unbearably relieved at finally getting the chance to slip a word in edgewise. "Acceptance is the final stage of grieving, after all. Plenty of people never make it that far." The Doctor is too involved with his drink to reply, so Jack goes on. "I had a friend whose wife died while he was on a mission, and he just didn't know how to deal. So he got his hands on one of those new domestibots—the ones that look so human, y'know—and programmed it to be just like her. Voice, face—only it was still a robot. Creeped the hell outta everybody who knew the poor guy, and eventually the thing ran down and he ended up having to mourn twice." Jack shakes his head. "Bad business all around."

The Doctor is playing with his drink, his head tilted to the side, his eyes swirling. And then he looks up, staring straight ahead. "An android," he says slowly. "All he really needed was a body. His biodata is in-tact, somewhere in the Eye. I'd have to get him out somehow, of course, but I think that time-scoop I nicked off Borusa...and a mechanical body wouldn't be subject to that particularly unattractive form of decay. And he'd hate it, of course. That would be a definite advantage."

For the first time, the Doctor turns and looks full at Jack. "You're very handsome," he says, in some surprise.

Jack grins. "Thanks. You're not too bad yourself."

"And you have good ideas," the Doctor continues. "I think I'm going to kiss you now. I seem to like that sort of thing, this time."

Jack raises an eyebrow, but before he can make a remark the Doctor leans in and pecks him on the tip of the nose.

"Hmmm," says the Doctor. "That didn't go quite the way I expected it to. Ah, well. Thank you for the idea. And the drink. I don't suppose I'll be seeing you—and then again, the universe being what it is, who knows?"

Before Jack can say another word, the Doctor turns and disappears.

*

That Doctor hadn't been the one the Master saw when he first opened his mechanical eyes. The Master wouldn't forgive the Doctor for letting many things delay him scooping the Master out of the Eye, but the War had been a special case in so many, many ways. The Master knows the Doctor had seen it coming before anybody else had, the only Time Lord—apart from the Master himself—sufficiently aware of the Daleks' nature to anticipate the precise moment when they would become a real threat to the universe at large. He knows that the Doctor's precautions were absolutely crucial. And he knows that the Doctor's first precaution was one very, very close to home.

When he is first reborn, the Master thinks the Doctor must have regenerated since their last meeting, but when he asks how it happened the Doctor disabuses him of the misconception. The change from the soft-eyed Byronic gentleman the Doctor was to the hard-eyed Byronic gentleman he is now, with his grey-streaked hair and heavy black and green coat and emphatically down-turned mouth, hasn't been a proper regeneration at all. The process by which it was affected was unusual even by Time Lord standards. Time Lords with sufficient control over their regenerative processes—a quality the Doctor has always lacked, though to be fair he rarely regenerates under the best of circumstances—are more than capable of influencing and even changing their forms, physical and mental, during the first few hours after the initial shift of bodies that marks a regeneration. To affect that same kind of change between regenerations, however, is completely unheard-of.

"Artron is life and life is artron, yes?" the Doctor tries to explain. "The same way that matter is energy, more or less. But we're loomed with unbreakable psychic locks that only let us use our artron to transform our bodies twelve times. So I didn't use my artron, exactly. I used my life itself."

The Master blinks at him. "You did _what_ , Doctor?"

"Changing into this self won't cost me a regeneration. It's still technically my eighth. But this body won't last. It'll age and decay much faster than a normal form. If I get three centuries out of it, I'll be very lucky."

If a Time Lord is careful, a single body can theoretically last a millennium or more before old age forces a regeneration. The idea of a Time Lord formed with a three hundred year time limit is bizarre—and, as it's the Doctor, horrible. "But _why_ , Doctor?"

"When do my bodies ever last three centuries, anyhow? And you met my last self. Or the beginning of this one, technically."

"Briefly, and still in the throes of regeneration."

"Yes," the Doctor agrees. "But that was more or less the sum of it, the version you knew. That was who he was. Can you imagine what he'd have been like in a war?"

"Ah," the Master grants.

"Indeed. I'd have been killed inside five minutes of the first shot being fired."

"The odds do seem to lean that way. But you've never been the kind to favor odds above luck, Doctor."

"That was what worried me," says the Doctor softly. "I don't mind dying. I've done it before. But can you imagine what it would have been like if that self had _lived_?"

And now the Master understands it. "It'd have broken you," he says, his voice equally hushed. "Completely and irrevocably."

"Yes. I needed a self who was a little bit broken already. It was the only way to stop me cracking irredeemably." The Doctor looks up, then. "And I needed you."

Normally, the Master would rub it in. But the War is a special case, in so many, many ways. And so he gives the Doctor the enigmatical look that this quiet form of himself does so well, and trails his fingers over the Doctor's neck as he's leaving.

Let the Doctor draw his own conclusions.

*

They are very much like each other, this time around—more alike than they have been since the very beginning, since the golden years of their youth. Which is odd, and ironic, because neither of them is anything like those boys they used to be, and the Master isn't even _real_. They're both sarcastic and shrewd and suave and hard and dangerous and brilliant, because those are the things they need to be to survive with each other, and against the rest of the universe.

They're lovers again, now. There's never any question that they will be, not really. "Ah. I see. I'm your sexbot, then," is the Master's first statement in his new form. "As though you'd want to be anything else," the Doctor replies, and that's as much discussion as either of them needs. All they've ever needed is an excuse to stay in the same place at the same time, and the Master can't even leave the Doctor's TARDIS without him, now. They both know that the real reason for that precaution is to give them a justification for the confidence they already had in each other, but neither bothers to mention it.

They haven't had this kind of stability, this relatively predictable relationship, since the Doctor's flight from Gallifrey, haven't had the right to take kisses any time they want them and fuck whenever it feels right. It's been too long for it to feel like a return to what used to be. Neither of them depends upon anything. Neither of them trusts. But the universe is going to pieces around them, and each of them is willing to bet on the other in the face of the outside world. They've always had that, even when things between them were at their darkest. There were days when the Master could have shot the Doctor almost without remorse, but there was never a moment when he wouldn't have stood between the Doctor and the bullets in somebody else's gun. That much never changed. It never will.

That loyalty leaves its mark. As the worlds outside the TARDIS grow darker, dimmer, colder, something starts to change between them. The first time they'd had sex in these bodies it'd been rough and angry and bitter and hard. It'd been the Master punishing the Doctor for condemning him to this half-life, and hating himself for cherishing even this figment of existence; it'd been the Doctor punishing the Master for centuries of misdeeds, and hating himself for needing the Master in spite of them. They'd come growling and gasping, making sticky messes of the clothes they hadn't bothered to remove and which had proved no protection against bruises from fingers that clung too hard. Then they'd shucked those ruined garments and done it again, even rougher this time, as though each were fighting to guarantee that the other would be too battered to forget it all by morning. After the first two weeks their desperation had waned sufficiently to give way to subtler tortures, ropes and gags and blindfolds, weeks spent teasing and then denying, cruel words and filthy words and words gasped through clenched teeth as they fought each other, themselves, anything there was to fight. That was what these bodies were made for, after all. The larger battle of their marriage (a word neither of them ever dares to mention) can't be dropped simply because the universe is at war, or because they need each other now even more than they always have.

But as the drums of war beat on, and the bleakness of the outer world begins to saturate their souls, there start to be moments—just moments—when the dangerous twin threads of remembrance and forgetfulness get tangled in the Master's mind. There are nights when he kisses the Doctor without a hand around his throat, or caresses him without digging in his fingernails, or looks into his eyes while they're fucking. There are mornings when he wakes up with the Doctor curled against him, and afternoons when the Doctor moans his name while the Master is sucking his cock, and evenings when the Doctor casually kisses him good-night, and, no matter how much he promises himself, the Master always forgets, somehow, to mock the Doctor for those failings later.

*

The War doesn't come immediately. Not right away. And when it does, it isn't always what it is, not yet. For a little while, they're nearer spies than warriors. They both hate those days. But they appreciate that hating them is a privilege, and they do their duty. They are good soldiers-in-training, because they have to be. They obey their orders. They know that they have special gifts, and that these are now a military advantage. They have already seen the universe that will be their battleground, a thing untrue of so many of their race, and can do what the rest of their species can't. The Time Lords send them to divide races between ally and enemy, to draw battle lines, to build the foundations of a mutually assured destruction, and they do.

Then the War does come, in earnest, and they get to see, and feel, and taste, and smell, what mutually assured destruction really _means_.

There isn't a word for this. 'Catastrophe' and 'mayhem' and 'bedlam' don't come close. 'Chaos' does a little better, but only in the original, sentient sense: Chaos as a living force, a goddess not of death or pain but fundamentally opposed to existence itself. Chaos stands in opposition to order, and everything that exists is ordered, into atoms and molecules and cells, divided between organic and mechanical, sentient and non-sentient, living and dead, past and present and future. None of those forms of order matter anymore. Time itself is in flux. Any bond can be torn apart, any distinction can be unmade, can be made never to have existed at all. Truth is irrelevant, fact is only a myth.

The only thing they've got left is each other.

They're in danger every single second. They have to be. They don't really belong on either side. They have always been Dalek enemies numbers one and two, the Time Lords at the top of the 'to-exterminate' list. But the only beings in the universe now who hate them more than the Daleks are the Time Lords, because it's clear to all and sundry that they, the Renegades, the Doctor and the Master, are at the very heart of this never-ending battle they're fighting. The Daleks would never even have known the name 'Time Lord' if it weren't for the Doctor—and they might have been appeased forever by the Time Lords' great show of good faith, if the Master had only consented to stay dead. _They_ are the problem, and every one of their own kind knows it. And yet they refuse to die. The only thing that gives them courage enough for that, to go on living in the face of that kind of Chaos, is the knowledge that, when one of them falls, the other will be forced to go on fighting with his back unprotected.

Neither of them has ever seen a real battle before. Not from the inside. They've fought skirmishes so many, many times, often enough against each other. And they've _watched_ battles from the sidelines, as the observers their people are meant to be. But they've never even begun to comprehend what it means to be inside of a real, full scale _battle_ , not of minds but of bodies flinging themselves headlong into death, the kind that have begun to consume whole worlds the universe over. They haven't understood the terror, and the noise, and the mess, and the gut-roiling _stench_ of blood and shit and chemicals and flesh melting away around still-living bones. By the height of the War, the Daleks have modified their guns specifically to kill with greater pain, as a weapon of intimidation; the effect is no less invariably deadly, but suddenly there is very much more screaming. It rings in their ears for hours afterwards, until there are some nights after battles when they talk and talk and talk for hours, inane babble about nothing, just to cover up the sound. And other times, they barely speak for days, because they've realized that silence is as basic a necessity as food and sleep, and neither of them needs speech to know what the other is thinking.

What the Master is thinking almost never has anything to do with paradoxes. That dream, so long cherished, has not been so much abandoned as overwhelmed—first, long ago, by his duel with the Valeyard, and now by the War. He hasn't even begun building a new prototype of the Device, to replace the one lost with his TARDIS when he was sent to the Daleks to die. It's true that he and the Doctor are often busy in some way or another, even between battles, but the Master also learns that war is sometimes a waiting game. He can't honestly say that he hasn't got time to rebuild his Device. But it would feel wrong to work on that project here, in the Doctor's TARDIS. In one sense, it's the most logical place in the universe, as this is certainly the most eligible TARDIS to power his Device. But that's without considering what the Doctor would think if he knew. And anyway, what free time they have belongs to each other now. Everything they have and everything they do and everything they are belongs to each other. It has to, because they need each other now in this new, strange way that comes of comradeship through such unimaginable horrors. The Master doesn't fail to see the humor in having gained what he always wanted only in such an extremity. He wonders, if some demon had offered him the choice, if he'd have considered making the exchange: the Doctor's absolute fidelity at the cost of the universe in tatters. He wonders whether he thinks it's worth it, now, to have the Doctor back at such a price.

Most days, the Master decides that he doesn't know, and that it's irrelevant, anyway. The universe _is_ at war, and he _has_ got the Doctor, and, no matter how untrue those may once have been, they are now immutable facts. The Master can't think about after. He doesn't really think there will ever be an after. Even in the highly unlikely event that there is still a universe when all this is over, he and the Doctor won't live to see it. The Master will never again be a Renegade or a scientist or a would-be conquerer. He'll never be anything but a soldier, not ever again. But he'll have the Doctor for the rest of his lives, and they will die together.

The Master, whose ambitions once stretched to control over the whole of space and time, knows now how very little is enough.

*

Far too often, nowadays, their eyes stare at nothing at all. But that doesn't stop them seeing the end, when it's drawing near.

The night after Arcadia falls, after they've run-stumbled back to the TARDIS and set her co-ordinates for "anywhere but here and as fast as you can," they drag themselves to the nearest bathroom. On the way they shed clothes that'll never be more than mud and blood now, never be fit for anything but burning. The shower in this bathroom isn't really big enough for two, but the hot water lasts a long time, long enough for them to scrub every real speck of grime off of each other and a good many imaginary ones, long enough for them not to say anything at all and make the silence stick. They still don't say anything as they collapse into bed, too exhausted to be ashamed of sleeping in each other's arms.

When the Master wakes up in the middle of the night—what he knows by feel is the middle of the night, even here, in the Vortex, where there isn't night or day—the Doctor is kissing him as though he'll never want to kiss anyone else as long as he lives, and the Master knows what's happening. It doesn't matter the slightest bit that he's mechanical, that he's been through a dozen bodies and then some since then; his lips remember. This is exactly the way Theta kissed him their first night together. Twenty-four years old, babies by Time Lord standards, and Koschei hadn't had a moment's say in it; he'd woken up to Theta's kiss, knowing just how it was going to go, and couldn't have stopped it if he'd tried with all his will. It's the same now, just _exactly_ the same, in every detail. The Master knows it's not an accident, and wants to hate the Doctor for this, and can't. He can't do anything but open his lips to the Doctor's, just as he had then; move his fingers where the Doctor guides them, just as he had then; clutch the Doctor's hips as the Doctor straddles him and slides down onto his cock, just as he had then. They're both breathing in just the same pattern of gasps and pants as their younger selves did, which makes no sense at all with two new pairs of lungs, and when the Doctor clasps his hands over the Master's temples and slides into his mind his thoughts and emotions are Theta's, and that should be _impossible_ given all that's come between them since.

And then the Doctor does something different.

The Master remembers how Theta said his name on that long-ago night, the breathless "Koschei." He's expecting those two syllables now, and is prepared not to resent them. But what the Doctor says is "Master," in a very specific Gallifreyan case that means "my-Master," and "Master-who-belongs-to-me," and "Master-to-whom-I-belong," and "Master-who-is-my-husband," and, more than all of that, "Master-who-will-be-tied-to-me-forever." And suddenly it isn't anything like the first time—suddenly they are two old men, who look at each other with eyes which six hours ago watched good men burn alive, and tug at strands of hair which six hours ago were full of the resulting ash, with fingers which six hours ago pulled the triggers that avenged those deaths. The Master understands now that this isn't about the past, but the future, and how short that future is likely to be. His hips piston up to meet the Doctor's not with the eagerness of a green boy, but with a desperate need to be certain that the man he's thrusting into is still alive and whole and his, and the Doctor kisses him not with sweet, gentle lips but with the same frenzy for reassurance. But when the Master speaks the Doctor's name, it is in that same hyper-intimate case that goes so far beyond petty human notions like 'love' and 'possession.' And when they come, their minds tied so tightly together it hurts, the entirety of existence goes white, and time ceases to march, and it's so much more than being alive, and so much more than dying.

The Master never retains very clear memories of the rest of that night. He knows that neither their minds nor their bodies had uncoupled for hours afterwards, not until long after he had flipped the Doctor onto his stomach and taken him slow and deep as their thoughts slid silken and perfect through each other's minds. He remembers the feeling of the Doctor driving into his body in turn, how he'd keened and pressed back into it, how the Doctor's breath had been loud in his ear and lovelier than any symphony. He thinks perhaps they'd rested a bit between then and the memory of their legs locked tight together as they'd rutted hard against each other's bodies, the sense-image of how the Doctor's finger had tasted when he swiped it across their come-slick bellies and pressed it to the Master's lips. He knows that the sex had gone on for as long as their bodies could possibly keep going, and was succeeded in their exhaustion by a seemingly endless chain of kisses, and that they'd finally fallen asleep with their lips still pressed together. And he's certain that, through all the long hours of that night, they had never spoken any word beyond each other's names.

If this is what preparing for death feels like, the Master thinks, perhaps this War will be worth dying in after all.

*

They awake, hours later, to the clearing of a throat on a nearby communicator screen.

"I don't have either the time or the energy left to be scandalized, so let's skip right past the part where my top renegade scientists are lying naked in bed together looking well and truly fucked, shall we?"

"Don't let the Rani hear you say that. The 'top renegade scientist' part, not the other. I don't suppose she can spare the time or energy either, though she might be shocked in spite of herself to hear the Lady President of Gallifrey using such language."

"Bugger my language. Sit up and pay attention," says Romana shortly. "Actually, Doctor, scratch that. Go back to sleep if you like. It's the Master I need to talk to."

"Me, Excellency?"

"Neither do I have the time nor the energy to repeat myself. Yes, you. Some clever type has been digging through old files, trying to find the silver bullet to end all this madness, and your name came up. Nearly a millennium ago, you were working on a device that used the excess energy produced by a TARDIS to..."

The Master watches every muscle in the Doctor's body tighten at once. He turns very slowly to face the Master, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes the Master's breath away.

"No," says the Master, interrupting Romana's monologue, his eyes still fixed on the Doctor. A day ago that might not have been his answer, but a day ago isn't today.

"I'm sorry?"

"No. I won't resurrect that project. I'm sorry, Madame President, but I won't." The Master swallows hard and looks away, toward Romana's image. "That device ruined my life, and has kept on ruining it. It's never caused anything but misery to anyone. I won't touch it again."

Romana rolls her eyes. "Of all the people to go sentimental on me," she mutters. "None of us will have a life to ruin within a month if we don't find some better way of fighting the Daleks, Master. It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order."

"No." The Doctor's voice is diamond-hard. He is sitting now, and his hand reaches out to grasp the Master's, solidarity and gratitude and affection radiating through the touch, half-implied and half-psychic. "He said he's not going to have anything to do with it, Romana, and neither, for the record, will I. Next subject."

"This is nothing to do with you, Doctor." Romana's voice is as harsh as her features, worn down so nearly to eyepits and cheekbones with overwork and fear that she may as well be nothing but eyes floating within her own skull. "You know that I admire your moral scruples, and I'm impressed you've passed them on to the Master, but I cannot cater to them. Not this time. Not now. I have an ever-more-torn universe to personally stitch back together, and I simply _haven't got time_. Master, the Council is prepared to offer you a new Time Lord body and an entire set of regenerations for your trouble."

"I've heard that one before."

A very familiar sound echoes through the bedroom, and a tapestry that wasn't there before materializes on the far wall. A unfamiliar man steps out from behind it, stiffly. He's in his early middle age, has hair like straw—in color and texture—over very blue eyes, a wide mouth and a rather coarse nose in an honest face. He's not much like most of the Master's past forms, but there is something recognizable in the close crop of the beard, and the glint of intelligence clear in the eyes despite the obvious lack of awareness.

"He's you," says Romana, "and he's just stepped out of an ultra-modern type ninety-eight programmed to your Imprimatur. Ironically, he's the automaton, at the moment. All you've got to do is touch him, and your consciousness will be transferred."

Life. _Real_ life. _Thirteen_ real lives. There, waiting for him, hovering quite literally within his reach.

And all for the price of resuming the work that never really let him go, no matter how much he might have wanted to abandon it.

The Master looks back to the Doctor. He wishes he could mock that continuing overflow of emotion on the Doctor's face, but he's sure he looks much the same.

"I was very close to finishing it, the last time I tried. I think I could have a functional prototype within weeks, but not without the Doctor's help. He's worked on it before, and I won't trust anyone else. If you can convince him to help me, then I'll do it."

The Doctor gives the Master a covert glare. "Ah, the old 'ask your father' trick. You always were fond of that one," he mutters. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it should, hearing the Doctor talk about parenthood, especially in the context of the larger discussion. It doesn't hurt, the Master realizes, because he can still taste the Doctor on his own lips, is still pleasantly sore from the best night of sex he's ever had, and is surer in the Doctor's love than he has been since his first body. It doesn't hurt because, for the first time in a thousand years, the Master has what he needs, isn't starving, isn't lost. And now, older and wiser, he's confident that even the Device that tore them apart last time cannot come between them now. He'll do everything right, this time. He'll remember that the Doctor is the most important thing. He'll send away that new body—how long would he be likely to have it, anyway, the universe being what it is right now?—if the Doctor says that's the way it needs to be. And if the Doctor says yes, the Device will be theirs, both of theirs.

The Doctor's face is darkening, his brow lowering, his mouth tightening. It's a long time before he speaks, and when he does his voice is raw. "No. You trusted me once, Romana. Trust me on this. _It won't work_. It won't work, and it can't work."

In a flash of residual psychic contact, left over from last night's festivities and intensified by their physical closeness now, the Master sees an image from the Doctor's mind—a very young Time Lady, Romanadvoratrelundar as she was when the Doctor first met her. There is nothing left now of that innocent girl. The eyes in the wasted face on their screen, with its absurd little button of a nose, blaze like supernovas even as an image, once removed from the real world. "Then it'll be no worse than a waste of time, and that's my problem, not yours. _Everything_ is my problem, just this second, so I'm going to make this impossibly clear: I am the Lord High President of Gallifrey, Doctor. I carry the Rod and the Sash and the Key, and the Matrix opens itself for me. You are a Time Lord, and I am your President, and for once in all your lives you will _do as you're told._ "

The Doctor has always responded badly to authority, the Master thinks, but he's completely unprepared for the effect that such treatment from one of his precious Companions will have. " _No_!" The Doctor's voice is a whipcrack, and angry in a way the Master has never in all his years heard. The Doctor throws back his head, proud and strong and unyielding and dangerous, and the Master thinks that if he wasn't so startled, he'd probably be so turned-on his eyes would cross. "I know you've read the files, Romana. You're asking me to rebuild the thing that _killed my daughter_. I _won't_."

"Yes, Doctor. I _have_ read the files. But I have an entire planet full of the sons and daughters of our race, and every one is my responsibility. My children are dying every day, and you can save them. You have a very simple choice, Doctor. You can wallow in self-pity, in which case I will recall your TARDIS to Gallifrey and set the guards on you. They will arrest you for dereliction of duty and confiscate your property, including your TARDIS and the android sleeping in your bed. They'll make a few key adjustments to his circuitry to permit him to retain the Master's technical brilliance without any of the inconveniences of personality or free will. He'll finish this project without you, and then he'll be de-activated, because the biodata walking around in that casing isn't meant to exist outside the Matrix anyway. Alternately, you could remember that, while you may no longer have a daughter, you could still have a husband—in a real, Time Lord body—if you come down off your high horse, and decide that what family you still have left is more important than very old paranoia."

No one, _no one_ has referred to their marriage so explicitly in many, many centuries. The Master is still reeling from the force of it when he hears the Doctor, even more furious than before, begin, "He's _not_..."

The Master will never forgive himself for flinching. By the time the Doctor looks at him, stopping his sentence in its tracks, the Master's face is impassive, cold, and he manages to meet the Doctor's eyes with a look that he doesn't think is imploring. But the damage is done. The Doctor is giving him that pitying look, the one the Master has always hated. When the Master tries to turn away the Doctor reaches out and rests his fingers on the Master's, brushing himself against his mind.

 _Master_ , the Doctor thinks, just the way he had last night, half echo and half reiteration. It's much more than just a name—it's a retraction of the sentence he was about to speak, a renewal of old vows that he has bent and broken and denied, real now in the sober light of day.

The Master stills. He doesn't need to offer such reassurances, and the Doctor doesn't deserve them. It isn't the Master who has spent all these centuries hiding from the truth. But there is something he can say, a gift and a 'you're damn right, and don't forget it again' at once, and that's the word he sends to the Doctor's mind. _Forever._

The Doctor's breath hitches, and he blinks several times, very quickly. The Master sneers, but his voice is far too tender when he says, aloud, "You're a sap, Doctor, and you always were."

"Doctor?" says Romana, snapping both men back to the present, the Master realizing with a grimace how much of that exchange was no doubt obvious, telepathy or no.

The Doctor turns back to the screen, his features as unyielding now as they were soft a moment ago, and the Master thinks, fleetingly, that this is what war means—no space for in-betweens. "I won't like it," says the Doctor, roughly.

"I'm not asking you to like it, Doctor," says Romana, already reaching for the switch to cut off contact. "I expect reports on your progress every other day."

And then they're alone again, the Doctor and the Master and the strange, lifeless figure that the Master is about to become.

"Well," says the Master. "I suppose I'd better..."

"Oh no you don't." The Doctor rolls, trapping the Master flat on his back beneath him. "I went to a lot of trouble building you, sexbot," he comments, with wicked eyes and a salacious grin. "I'm not going to have you abandoning this body without one last..."

"Doctor," calls Romana's voice, irritated.

"I thought you'd left us, Madam President." The Doctor doesn't turn to face Romana—but that may be because his nudity is no longer hidden beneath blankets and sheets.

"I knew you would. Get off the Master and get to work, Doctor."

"That's just exactly what I always intended to do, Romana—get off, and _then_ get to work."

" _Doctor_..."

The Doctor grabs his sonic screwdriver from the bedside table and points it over his shoulder at the communicator screen. There is a flash of light and a crackle of sizzled wiring.

"I knew there was a reason I've kept that 'launch short-range explosives' function all these years."

"You're terribly unattractive when you're so smug, Doctor."

"I beg to differ."

"Good," says the Master, smirking as he rolls over, reversing their positions. "I've always loved it when you beg."

*

When finally he does make it into his new body, the Master's already got aches in his legs, from leaving that form standing useless and still for some six hours or more.

*

"That's not possible, Master! How is that possible?"

"It's not impossible. Genetically speaking..."

"It's statistically impossible! You've got a different throat, a different neck, a different mouth, different larynx, different lips, different teeth, different tongue—how can you _possibly_ have the same voice?"

"Doctor. Think for just a moment about your life. Think for just a moment about _our_ lives. Never mind your whole existence—never mind this whole regeneration, even—is this really the oddest or the most unlikely thing you've seen _this week_?"

"...No."

"I rest my case. Now stop gawping, Doctor. We've got a universe to save."

*

The Device, as it finally begins to come together, is a hybrid, ragtag macedoine, the mutt offspring of the best scientific efforts from many separate corners of the universe. The Master doesn't see any indignity in that. On the contrary—he's proud of all the effort he's put into making this work, proud of knowing so much about the technology of so many races and worlds. Only a man who had known the Nestene would be canny enough to understand how to treat energy as a living force. Only a man who had been to Xeriphas would have such a keen grasp on how to deal with sentient machines. Only a man daring enough to steal from the Matrix itself would have access to so many of Rassilon's own secrets. And only a man loved by the Doctor would have knowledge enough to do the rest.

Because not all of the Device's final design is the Master's, and he doesn't see any indignity in that, either. The Doctor has seen and done so many things, and moreover he knows this TARDIS inside-out. She's always performed feats for him that no other Time Lord could possibly have coaxed her to, and the Master knows she'll be more cooperative now if the Doctor's touch is an ingredient in the Device. The Doctor knows how to persuade her to behave as they assemble the cage around her Heart. He knows how to coddle and soothe. The Master can't help seeing the odd side of that gentleness. He wonders how he could ever have believed that this is what the Doctor was, all the way through. The Doctor used to have so much mercy. But then, the War has taught the Master things he didn't know about himself, either. And maybe someday the Master will be able to see his Doctor as a peacemaker again. Maybe the sheer power of time, the mightiest force the Master has ever known, will erode away the hardness in both of them.

The Master has begun to think about time again. He's begun to believe that a future is possible. He doesn't exactly hope; he hasn't known hope in such a long, long time. But things are going to end soon, one way or another. Arcadia was an enormous tactical defeat, and there are whispers, floating through time and space, that the Cruciform will be the next to fall. The Master is inclined to believe it. After that, they'll be lucky to have days. But if he and the Doctor can finish the Device in time, the Master thinks they really _can_ end this War. Such pure, tremendous power has a million applications; at least one of those uses must be enough to finish off the Daleks and their allies for good and all. So the Master and the Doctor seal themselves away in a time bubble—such contrivances are highly unreliable these days, and can't entirely pause the universe outside, but it buys them time enough to work without the rush that would make them sloppy—and devote themselves to getting the Device done. And as the Project grows nearer and nearer to the consummation the Master has been awaiting for twelve hundred years, he tries not to think about himself, or the Doctor, or what can possibly happen to them, after this War is over.

*

The Master had thought he knew what the walking dead looked like. Then he sees the Lady President for the last time.

"They have it," is what Romana says. "The Cruciform." Her voice is completely toneless, and her eyes may as well be blind. "You two are the only thing we've got left. I'm putting all the power I can into sealing that time bubble you're in, to give you room to work, but that means you won't be able to communicate. When you've finished the Device, use it. I don't care how. You'll think of something, Doctor. You always do. Just use it."

"Romana..."

"Your granddaughter is dead." It's so abrupt that the Doctor and the Master both freeze. They've been trying to forget that Susan has been in the middle of all this. The Doctor had gone to Susan before he built the Master's android body, offered to spirit her away to some parallel dimension where she might be safe from the coming carnage. She had refused, determined to stand by her people, and the Doctor had reluctantly respected that wish. "She was shot down defending the Cruciform. Leela would have said it was a good death. She died at Susan's right hand."

Romana doesn't say she's sorry. Those words are worthless now, and they all know it. She just waits as the Doctor and the Master share one long look, and then turn back to her face on the screen.

"What are you going to do, Romana?" the Doctor asks.

"There'll be one last battle," Romana says. "I should have died with my people a long time ago. I won't see you again."

The Doctor the Master once knew would have argued and fought, railed against that defeatist sentiment. This Doctor grits his jaw.

"Good-bye, Romana," says the Doctor.

"Good-bye, Doctor," she answers, and the screen goes dark.

*

And all of a sudden, one quiet evening in the Vortex, the Device is done.

They both know it's finished, and right, this time. They can feel it in their bones. But they agree that it'll need one more test, first thing in the morning, to give themselves this last night to accept it all—a night they can spare, with the time bubble locked up tight. They need one more night with the War as their excuse for the fervor of their kisses, for the passion of their bodies, for the intensity of the bond between their minds. Tomorrow, they'll have to admit that, of all the universes, they've chosen each other, and that'll be far more difficult than defeating the Daleks ever was. But for one more night they can make it a matter of need, and so they push back the completion those few hours, and make the most of them.

The Master lies in the Doctor's embrace, sleepy and sticky and sated, surrounded by the scents of sex and success, and, as he's drifting to sleep, says something very, very stupid. "Doctor," he murmurs, half-dreaming, into his lover's arm. "My Doctor. You'll forgive me now, won't you? Now that it works. Now you'll finally forgive."

The Master doesn't understand what he's just said until he feels the Doctor's muscles tense. Then the full weight of his own idiocy comes crashing in on him like an entire percussion section falling down a flight of stairs, and his teeth clench so hard he'll have a headache for a week.

The Doctor doesn't say anything, and he doesn't look at the Master; true, it's dark, but with their senses, that's no excuse at all. But he kisses the Master—reluctantly, at first, almost as though he finds the exercise distasteful, and then, suddenly, so intensely that it smashes their lips against their teeth. The Doctor's hand fists in the Master's hair, pulling them together, and the Master can't do anything but hold on to the Doctor's shoulders and give the kiss all he's got, which seems to be enough. When their mouths pull apart, the Doctor keeps holding him close, so close their noses are still pressed together, breathing hard against the Master's lips. The Doctor rocks back and forth, very slightly, clearly on the point of speech, and the Master can't tell whether he doesn't speak because he's got too much to say, or nothing to say at all. Whichever it is, the Doctor stays silent. But he presses his lips against the Master's one more time, gentle as a sigh and yet with every muscle of his body straining into the touch. There is something oddly familiar about that pair of kisses, but the Master falls asleep before he can quite decide what they remind him of.

Several hours later, the Master wakes up in a wild-eyed, racing-hearted panic on the control room floor of his own TARDIS, having remembered as he slumbered that that's the way the Doctor kisses him when he cannot bear to say goodbye.

*

His TARDIS is in flight. The Master doesn't have time to check the coordinates right now. There's a note from the Doctor on his chest, and that's far, far more important.

 _We've both always known that the universe has it wrong about us, haven't we, Master? I'm the pessimist—you're the one who's always had hope. And you've done terrible things on the grounds of ends justifying means, but I don't think you would ever consider the complete elimination of your own race from every corner of history to be an acceptable sacrifice, no matter how noble the cause. If there is a deity somewhere out there, I beg them to forgive me for what I am about to do. I beg_ you _to forgive me, Master. I'm so, so sorry._

 _Within hours, neither of us will ever have existed, but I love you forever, all the same._

*

The Master stares, wide-eyed, at the letter in his hand.

This is impossible. This can't be happening. He's going to die. Really, this time. He and his entire race are going to die, and the Doctor is going to kill them. The _Doctor_ is going to kill him. He _can't_ die. If he ever does, perhaps it will be the Doctor who does it. But not this time. Not like this. Not when the Doctor isn't even looking him in the eye. He won't let the Doctor kill him like _this_ , so impersonal, so distant. He _won't_. He _won't_ die betrayed and alone, betrayed _again_ by the man who has now left him twice a broken fool, the man who has stolen the Device he's devoted his whole life to, and who now wants to use it to finish him off. He's going to _live_. He's going to make the Doctor suffer for this—except the Doctor is going to die. They're both going to die.

The Master knows that there's no chance of getting inside the Doctor's TARDIS to stop him doing whatever it is he's planning on doing with the Device; the Master can think of at least a dozen ways that all that power could be turned to destruction, and he doesn't have a chance of stopping any of them. He can't stop it. He's got to accept that he can't stop it. But he's got to find a way to live anyway, because he's a man who can build paradoxes, and anything the Doctor can do, he can undo again. It doesn't matter if the Doctor dies; the Master can bring him back, and make him regret playing the Master this way _again_. But he has to survive, first. He has to survive the non-existence of all things Time Lord. He has to be not himself. He has to think of something, he has to think of something _right now_ , because there can't be much time left, and...

Out of the corner of his eye, the Master sees something dangling from his ceiling.

*

In another time, in another place, another man wakes up in a hospital bed, clutching a silver pocketwatch.

"There you are. We thought for sure we'd lose you. You've got quite the will to live," says a voice, the kind obviously belonging to a doctor. "You've been out for weeks. How do you feel?"

"A headache," he murmurs. "I've got a pounding in my head."

The doctor laughs. "If that's the worst of it, I'd say you're about the luckiest man I've ever met. What's your name?"

He considers. What _is_ his name?

"Yana," he says, finally, slowly, not quite certain. "My name is Professor Yana."


	11. Chapter 11

Those who know Professor Yana see him as a kind, courteous, helpful, intelligent and thoroughly upright man.

Professor Yana knows himself a kind, courteous, helpful, intelligent and thoroughly upright man who lives in a world with no hope left, and awakens every morning from very, very strange dreams.

*

Nothing changes in the Professor's universe. Nothing ever changes. He works, and works, and longs for the light of stars that died before he was born. Every now and then he finds strange notes among his papers, in his own hand, designs for what seems to be an energy device, and something else called a paradox machine. None of it means anything to him. The diagrams are horrifically complex, and, scientific genius or no, he's only human, after all, and can't be expected to know everything. So he puts the papers away, and goes on with his work. The children around him grow up, and are replaced by their own children. Professor Yana eats and sleeps and dreams and dreams and dreams. And then he wakes, and works, and tries to soothe his headaches, and is lonely with the aching of a man who hasn't always been alone, and he keeps working, and keeps working, and nothing ever, ever changes.

And then _he_ arrives.

*

The Doctor behaves like a man used to being tugged down hallways and thrust without warning into the thick of the most important science project in the universe. He's strangely ignorant, and no scientific help at all, but he's obviously intelligent, and he makes the Professor want to laugh, a rare thing on Malcassairo.

He also makes the Professor's drums hammer so loudly he can hardly keep his head in one piece, and then caps it off by proving that 'no scientific help at all' is a major miscalculation.

The Professor has no idea _what_ this Doctor is, but he knows he hasn't felt so alive in as long as he can remember.

*

Professor Yana tries not to be a vain man. There's no use for vanity in this world, and anyway, he _is_ one of the most important human beings alive. He doesn't need anyone to tell him so.

It feels very, very good when the Doctor tells him so.

"Some admiration would have been nice," he admits. "Just a little. Just once."

"Well," says the Doctor, in a voice which it will take Professor Yana until much later to classify as coy, "you've got it now."

Then Professor Yana turns to look at the monitor screen on the other side of the room. There is a box there, a blue box, and his drums are _screaming_.

"Professor?" the Doctor is saying, very far away.

"I...yes. Yes," the Professor murmurs.

"Jack," says the Doctor, turning to his companion, "go check on the TARDIS, will you? Figure out where they've stowed her, make sure she's more or less in one piece? You've still got your key, haven't you?"

Jack pulls out his key and dangles it in front of him. "Will do, Doctor."

"Wait—wait one minute." The Doctor pulls a scrap of paper and a pencil out of his pocket, then begins frantically scribbling. "How'd you like to fly her in here, Jack? I wouldn't trust most humans to do it, but you know something about time travel already, and it's only a short hop. You'll hardly have to touch a thing, and I figure you deserve a treat after your last ride."

"I thought you said the TARDIS isn't big on me these days, Doctor," says Jack uneasily.

"I'm counting on that. She'll want to find _me_ as soon as possible. That's the best insurance policy you could have. Go ahead, then," says the Doctor, shoving his sheet of instructions into Jack's hand. "If anything goes wrong, just tap every other blue button, from right to left, and then back from left to right, and she'll soon sort herself out."

Jack is clearly skeptical, but he trusts the Doctor. "Aye aye, sir," he says, with a salute and a smirk. "If I do well, will I earn a promotion to First Mate? Preferably with an emphasis on the M..."

"Get along with you! Incorrigible, that's the word for you."

"Completely," Jack grins, and vanishes.

"Are you all right?" the Doctor asks the Professor, as soon as Jack has disappeared. By then the drums have died down enough for Yana to nod, and mean it.

"Well enough, well enough." He rubs his neck.

"I think we've got a firm handle on things here," the Doctor gestures at the control room. "We can spare just a few minutes."

"I confess, I wouldn't mind a brief moment to catch my breath."

"That was a very noble thing you were willing to do, Professor," the Doctor says, crossing the room to stand beside him. "Staying behind to launch the rocket. Not many men would."

"Only my duty, Doctor. Just the same as I've been doing all this time." The Professor runs his hand lovingly over the circuitry he has spent so many years cobbling together.

"Not many men would—or could—have done all this, either. Must have been lonely, all these years, even with Chantho around," the Doctor comments. "Brilliant man like you—what're you doing all on your own? Or have you lot given up on rings, nowadays, shortage of everything and all?"

He gestures at the Professor's left hand, and Yana finally understands what he's talking about. He almost says 'I was married long before I got here,' and then wonders if his memory is really so bad as _that_ , because of course he wasn't. "Oh, I simply never had the time, I suppose. A very great deal has always depended on my research here, of course. Besides, that sort of thing is far more suited to men your age than to mine." He waves in his turn at the Doctor's own empty ring finger. "Why haven't you made an honest woman of that charming Miss Jones? Or is it Captain Harkness after all?"

"I don't think a divine decree could make an honest man of Jack," the Doctor laughs, "though he'd certainly like for me to try. I'm very much afraid Martha wouldn't mind me having a go, either. But I can't. I'm not...well, I..." The Doctor's face darkens, and he says very softly, "I'm a widower, I suppose. I never thought of it that way."

The Master is so distracted, watching the grey of loss spread over the Doctor's face, that he speaks without thinking. "So am I. Only, I'm the one who died."

It takes the Doctor a moment to drift back to reality. Then his brow furrows. "What did you just say?"

"I'm so sorry for your loss," repeats Professor Yana, laying a hand on the other man's arm. The Doctor looks at him like he's not at all certain that _is_ what the Professor said, but his only answer is, "Thank you. I...I haven't talked to anyone about it, before this. You're an easy man to open up to, Professor."

"That's kind of you to say." The Professor looks up, and realizes several things in very quick succession: how close they're standing, and how the Doctor's looking at him, and what this conversation has actually been about, and how pathetic it is, that he hasn't flirted with anyone in so long he can't recognize it while it's happening. The Doctor watches the wheels turning in the Professor's eyes, and then slides a few inches closer.

"Doctor," says Professor Yana, slowly, giving him a chance to interrupt in case the Professor's got it wrong, "you're young enough to be my son twice over."

The Doctor grins suddenly. "I promise you, I'm not. I'm much older than I look. Is that your only objection?"

"Even if you're a decade older than you look, you still..." Professor Yana has gone even longer without being kissed than he has without flirting. He must have forgotten what it's like, the first time with someone new, because this doesn't feel like what he remembers about first kisses. It's wonderful, yes, and it tingles on the Professor's lips, and where his neck meets his shoulders, and all along his back, but it doesn't feel new. It's familiar in a way that makes no sense at all, because he's never met this man before today, and it isn't like any other kiss he can ever remember tasting. The Professor has just presence enough to slam on the door lock before the Doctor kisses him again, and then he decides that he may as well be hanged for a lamb as a sheep, and kisses the Doctor back.

The Doctor doesn't waste any time, and Professor Yana is glad of that, because they haven't got any time to waste. The Doctor's hand is inside the Professor's trousers before the end of their fourth kiss, his fingers long and strong and a little rough, coaxing the Professor to hardness in no time at all. Then Yana feels something very, very strange, something that seems to happen inside the fabric of his scalp and to be too strong for his mind, something all wrong. He breaks away with a gasp and tosses his head, as though trying to shake a burr out of his brain.

"I'm sorry!" says the Doctor. "I'm sorry, I forgot you weren't hi...that that wouldn't work for you. I won't do it again, I promise."

The Professor nods, bemused, and the Doctor kisses him again, swirling his tongue just right. "Let me make it up to you," the Doctor whispers, and slides down the Professor's body. He sits back on his heels, and looks up, waiting for the Professor's nod of permission. He gives it hesitantly, still somewhat in shock at how quickly all this has happened, but then his cock is being pulled from his trousers, and the Doctor is wrapping his lips around it, and the Professor is groaning his approval.

"Doctor," the Professor murmurs. For a moment afterwards he curses himself for committing such a gaffe, such an inexcusable breach of good manners, until he realizes it was the right name after all, no matter how much those syllables seemed to spell out a long-lost love when they were passing through his lips. The Doctor moans around his cock, and Professor Yana hisses in a breath and sinks his fingers into the Doctor's hair, straining not to buck into that _exquisite_ warm mouth. Bloody hell, the boy is good at this, and what is the Professor _doing_ taking up with a man young enough for him to call 'boy' in his own head, and god, does it matter, when he can do things like _that_? There's a desperation in that mouth that isn't eagerness or simple enthusiasm, and when Professor Yana looks down he knows what it is. The Doctor's eyes are afire with contrition, illumined with the soul-bright rapture of penitence, and the Professor thinks how over-dramatic a thing it is to be young, because what could this man possibly have done to make him believe he needs forgiveness so badly?

Professor Yana doesn't blame the Doctor for using him as a rosary to count along or a hair-shirt against his skin. Yana's using the Doctor in his own way, after all, clinging desperately to one bright hot spark before the darkness and the cold close around him, the ending of the universe or just the end of his own life. The Professor has learned that any bit of real living in the sea of eternal sameness that is life is worth sinking his teeth into. He thinks that he didn't always know that, though he's not certain how he couldn't have, in a life that has always plodded along just the way it does now. That's the sort of thing he thinks times like now, when he's not really thinking at all, just focusing on the heat glowing along his spine and building into pressure at the base of his skull as the Doctor licks and sucks and bobs his head. It's the sort of half-conscious state his dreams come from, when he remembers people and places he's never seen—the sorts of false memories that make him moan, "Doctor, _Doctor_ ," just before he comes, gripping the Doctor like a lifeline, as though this boy meant everything to him instead of just a willing warmth, and one moment of color in a world of black-and-white.

The Doctor's tongue keeps moving, coaxing the Professor through his orgasm. Then he stands, licking his lips, and gently tucks the Professor's softening cock back into his pants. He lets out a little noise of surprise when the Professor reaches out suddenly to pull him into a rough kiss. Professor Yana's hands move possessively over the Doctor's body, sparing a few precious minutes to explore that wiry frame before sliding a hand over the Doctor's groin in his turn.

"I...you don't need to..." the Doctor stutters. "I did _that_ ," the Professor hides his amusement as the Doctor tries to find a benign gesture to mean 'got down on my knees and sucked your cock,' "because...well, I wanted to, is what I mean. You don't have to..." The Professor's fingers tighten, and then he rubs the heel of his hand over the growing bulge in the Doctor's trousers. The Doctor breathes out raggedly through his mouth, and loses the thread of his thought.

"I always pay my debts, Doctor. And in this case, I will consider that far more of a pleasure than an obligation." Professor Yana's fingers continue to rub along the length of the Doctor's cock, describing little circles as they go. He doesn't undo the Doctor's trousers, not just yet. He's always liked the tantalizing distance that comes of keeping a layer of cloth between skin and skin until the last possible moment. Sex in leather gloves is _wonderful_ —or he thinks it must be. He's never tried it. He doesn't _think_ he's ever tried it.

"Well," breathes the Doctor, "well, if that's how you feel about it, I'd hate to..."

"Chan, Professor Yana? The door is locked, tho."

Professor Yana appreciates Chantho's years of faithful service, he truly does. But as a man who has always prided himself on his tact, he can say conclusively that she proves the principle that one can be too polite. If it were anybody else in the world, he would call out a joking request for them to sod off, there's a good fellow, and then endure a bit of teasing before being left alone, and _then_ get to see what this pretty young man's face looks like when he comes. Instead he gives the Doctor a regretful look and steps away, and the Doctor carefully arranges his jacket to hide the evidence of their tryst. As it turns out, the timing is fortunate, because Jack and the TARDIS arrive just moments after Martha and Chantho. The women accept that the door was locked accidentally without a moment's question, but Jack's eyes are sharper. He sees the Doctor's red lips, and the Professor's pink cheeks, and their four dilated pupils.

"That's just not fair, Doctor," he murmurs, at a moment when only the Doctor and the Professor can hear. "I finally figure out what kind of man you like, and it'll take me _thousands of years_ to get there. Here I was thinking that the delayed aging was going to be a _help_."

"Bad luck, Jacky Boy," the Doctor mutters back. Jack trails his fingers over the small of the Doctor's back as he's walking away, and suddenly the Professor's drums are poundingpoundingpounding _pounding_ , and the Master has an urge, a terrible, terrible urge to slam Captain Jack Harkness's head into the ground, bash in his skull for touching what belongs to _him_ , and then Professor Yana's head is clear, and he's horrified. He's always thought his drums were harmless, before—inconvenient and painful and something he'd far rather do without, yes, but essentially harmless. But just then they were something tribal, primal, violent, and all over a man who...

Oh, what's the use of keeping on pretending? Something is _wrong_. He knows something is wrong. He's got drums in his head, and memories that aren't his own, and the most vivid, improbable, incredible dreams imaginable, and he can't keep pretending that nothing is wrong. And this man, this Doctor—he has something to do with it. He knows the Doctor has something to do with it. But there's no time, not with the rocket for Utopia about to launch. He'll ask the Doctor later, but right now there are a thousand things to do. He's busy learning that it wouldn't do him any good killing Captain Jack Harkness anyhow, because he can't die. And then Jack and the Doctor are off to save the universe, and talking of all kinds of dangerous things, and the drums keep growing louder and louder and louder.

*

The Doctor and Jack go on and on over the comm channel, a discussion that leaves the Professor's head ringing with strange possibilities. There is something familiar and frightening about it, as there was something familiar and frightening about that blue box, as there has been something familiar and frightening about this whole day. The Professor doesn't understand, and he's tired of not understanding. He's one of the most brilliant men alive, and he can't even make out what's going on in his own head, and it's wrong, and unfair, and...

And then Professor Yana is hearing the name 'Rose,' through the Doctor's lips.

The drums go completely and absolutely silent, and he _knows_.

He's crying, and he doesn't know why, except that he's very, very sure he does. The Doctor's talking about someone named Rose, and about bringing people back to life, and about The Final Act of the Time War, and the Professor can't stop crying, and he's so, so glad that the Doctor can't see. "Always late, always lost," he tells the women, and that's what he has been—always out of time, always mourning, a time traveler who could never change his own past and always lost his own future.

Professor Yana knows everything important, even if he has forgotten all he ever knew.

Clutching his battered pocketwatch, the Professor brushes the whorls of his fingertips over the whorls of his own name, and, with the slightest press against one tiny latch, becomes himself again.

*

He remembers.

He remembers _everything_.

"Doctor," hisses the Master.

*

The Master gets only one more look, one last look at his Doctor in this body that has been Yana.

This time, he's _damn_ well going to be the one to turn away.

*

For all that he knew far too much of drums, the pounding in Professor Yana's head had only ever been a whisper—a memory of what had been, a prediction of the future, a piece of prescience. That beat couldn't ever be something fully actual until it throbbed on _both_ sides of his chest.

Sometimes the Master wonders—privately, only when there's no one around to hear—whether he should ever have opened that watch at all.

He has spent hardly any time in a Gallifreyan body for more than half a millennium. He was a Trakenite, and then a psychophysical manifestation, and then a human, and then an android, and then, after only a few weeks as a Time Lord at the height of the War, a human again. And before all of that, he was a husk of a creature that had trouble enough to keep one of its hearts pumping, let alone two.

He's forgotten what a double heartsbeat sounds like.

He knows it was never like this before. There was always a sense of something driving him on, and sometimes he thought to link it with the blood pounding through his veins. But it was never this. It was never this constant _noise_. He supposes he wouldn't have thought to notice how _loud_ a Time Lord body is when it was all he'd ever known, but now that he's spent so much time in other forms, he's deafened by it. He wonders if other Time Lords who've used chameleon arches have noticed the same thing. So few ever left Gallifrey at all, and only one is likely to have undertaken such a dramatic experiment. But the Master's never noticed the Doctor nursing a pounding head, on Malcassairo or during the long years before. Maybe the Doctor's never tried it after all. Or maybe it wasn't for very long.

Or maybe the problem is just the Master, finally succumbing to insanity.

He fears very much it's that.

*

If he has gone mad, he thinks he's had just cause, on the grounds of irony alone.

Once the body that has been the professor has been shucked off, as soon as he stops screaming, the Master's first ebullient thought is that his time has finally come. He's been working towards this goal for thirteen regenerations and a variety of intervening forms to boot, and now he _has it_. The plans for his Device are in his head, complete and perfect, and the Doctor's TARDIS is all around him, just begging to fulfill the glorious destiny the Master has in mind.

"Now then, Doctor," the Master gloats over the communicator, "why don't we stop and have a nice little chat while I can tell you all my plans and you can work out a way to stop me. I _don't_ think!" If the Doctor can't guess his plan already he's a fool. And the Master knows he can, from that the Doctor says next.

"I'm asking you, really, properly—just stop. Just think!"

He's thought about nothing else for a millennium. Well...almost nothing else. Sometimes, he's thought about the Doctor. Sometimes, he's thought the Doctor was worth thinking about. And because he's so very generous, so much better than the man he's talking to, he's going to give the Doctor one last chance.

"Use my _name_."

It's a test. It's _the_ test. If the Doctor says it properly, as only the Doctor ever has, in the High Gallifreyan syllables that mean he recognizes his Master's ownership, the case that is a surrender all its own—if he says it right, the Master may stay long enough to let him _try_ to explain. He may consider the possibility that the Doctor _might_ have an explanation for betraying him and leaving him to die and destroying their entire civilization. If the Doctor says it right, the Master _may_ believe that this Doctor is worth the preservation of this timestream, and leave the past as it is. If the Doctor gives himself over utterly, and acknowledges everything they are, and accepts the punishment coming to him, the Master may _someday_ forgive him.

"Master," the Doctor whispers.

In English.

In _English_.

"I'm sorry," says the Doctor, but the Doctor's wronged him so many ways that the Master can't be sure what it's meant to be an apology for, and he doesn't really care.

"Tough!"

Slamming off the communicator, the Master overrides the Doctor's isomorphic lock with ease via the failsafes he programmed in his android days, and hastily sends himself into the Vortex. Then he sets about programming in the coordinates for Gallifrey, a few days before their daughter's death. That's all the time the Master will need to build his beautiful machine. And then it'll all change. _Everything_ will change.

"End of the universe! Have fun! Bye-bye!"

His past self will have the life he was always meant to have, and this redundant duplicate shell he's living in will become the guardian of his family's new future, guiding and sheltering them from a place in the shadows, gently shaping the perfect world in which his other self will live. The Master wishes briefly that he could bring his Doctor back with him, this new one with the spiky hair, and then scoffs at his own idiocy. The whole _point_ is to live in a universe where the Doctor never looks at him like he's crazy, like he's a murderer, like he's a man who destroyed a third of the universe and once let him die. All those means didn't matter, enacted as they were in the service of an end that will cause those same actions never to have been performed at all. But the Doctor who lived through the Master's pursuit of his Device would never see it that way. No, better to leave the tenth Doctor where he is, and let him fade from the timeline. There will be another tenth Doctor someday, with a new tenth Master who has never been far from his side, and life will be so much better.

And if the Master will sometimes miss this timeline's Doctor, pity and censure and Martian akido and cricket and ridiculous clothes and ridiculous hair and ridiculous umbrellas and all, well, that's his own stupid fault. The Master says his silent goodbyes to the Doctor who has been his best enemy, and pulls the lever that will send him back to a place and time where the Doctor is still his best friend.

Nothing happens.

A message flashes up on the TARDIS's monitor, in insistent, blaring capitals: 'ERROR: SPATIO-TEMPORAL CO-ORDINATES INVALID.' The Master frowns, punches in the co-ordinates again.

'ERROR: SPATIO-TEMPORAL CO-ORDINATES INVALID.' This time, supplemented by a polite suggestion: 'PLEASE SUBSTITUTE A NEW DESTINATION.'

"I don't _want_ to substitute a new destination!" the Master screeches. "Take me to Gallifrey, you crotchety old bucket of bolts!"

The TARDIS is quite capable of answering when she's spoken to, if one happens to know which buttons to press, though with the Doctor there's no need for her to communicate non-telepathicaly. A sedate mechanical voice, female, speaks in Gallifreyan, the only language that can possibly express the necessary distinctions of tense. " _Designation 'Gallifrey' invalid. Planet designation 'Gallifrey' does not exist/never existed/will never exist._ "

The Master screws up his face. "Then where were you built, you absurd machine? Where was I loomed? What is the planet of origin of the bloody language you're speaking?"

The TARDIS pauses for a moment, then responds, " _TARDIS designation 40.305 was never built/is not being built/will never be built. Time Lord designation 'Master' was never loomed/is not being loomed/will never be loomed. Language designation 'Gallifreyan' has no planet of origin/will never have a planet of origin/has never had a planet of origin._ "

The Master growls in frustration. "Then tell me your location at the relative Gallifreyan time I've asked you to visit."

The TARDIS whirrs, clearly thinking hard. " _At relative Gallifreyan time co-ordinates indicated, TARDIS designation 40.305 did not exist/had never yet existed/would exist._ "

"At what point in time and space did you begin to exist?"

" _First appearance of TARDIS designation 40.305 outside of Vortex recorded at time-space co-ordinates alpha-nine-one-seven-three-phi-one-one-bee. Colloquially, planet designation 'Woman Wept,' year thirty-five thousand, seven hundred and six of the Phitrion Era. Passengers, Time Lord designation 'Doctor' and Time Lady designation 'Susan.'_ "

"'Outside of Vortex?'" the Master wonders. "Do you mean to indicate that your first recognized moment of existence happened _within_ the Vortex?"

" _Yes_."

"On your first voyage with my husband and granddaughter?"

" _Yes_."

"On its way out of Gallifrey," the Master whispers. "It had never left Gallifrey before." He's beginning to understand all of this, but the implications are too horrible to think about.

"Surely all TARDIS's have a planet of origin," the Master argues.

" _TARDIS designation 40.305 has/has never had/will never have a planet of origin. Therefore, not all TARDIS units have a planet of origin._ "

"But surely..."

" _Querry: Does Time Lord designation 'Master' believe that he can argue TARDIS designation 40.305 into traveling to a planet that does not exist/has never existed/will never exist?_ "

The Master stops, gobsmacked. "Was that sass?" he asks, stunned. "Did you just sass me, machine?"

" _Preceding remark open to stated interpretation._ "

"You've been traveling with that hippie Doctor for too long," the Master grumbles. "Getting above yourself, you are."

When the TARDIS choses not to respond, the Master tries one more gambit. "Answer me one last riddle, TARDIS. If Gallifrey has never existed, then how do you know that the name corresponds to a planet?"

The TARDIS is silent for a long moment. When she answers, the Master believes she's speaking more slowly. " _If Gallifrey existed, it would be a planet_ ," she says finally. " _But there does not exist a universe in which the existence of planet designation 'Gallifrey' is/was/will ever be possible._ "

The Master is shocked into silence at last. The Doctor hasn't just destroyed their planet, in every dimension. He's made it a completely impossible thing, its non-existence as permanent as time itself. "Well," he says, thinking aloud, "then it'll just be a different paradox, that's all." Except that it won't. It'd be a whole host of paradoxes: one to permit even the possibility of Gallifrey in a universe that treats it as an allergen; one to make it the same Gallifrey he knew, in a universe where Gallifrey technically never was; and then another still to change the timeline, averting his daughter's death without calling down an angry horde of Reapers. His Device is an awesome source of power—after all, it caused the destruction he's now struggling to undo—but it's always so much easier to tear down than to build. The kind of energy necessary to artificially will an object the size and complexity of his homeworld back into existence...

It doesn't exist. Not in the whole universe. Not if he harnessed all the power for a hundred universes on every side. Gallifrey is _gone_. The Master cannot bring it back. And if he cannot restore his planet to life, he cannot restore his daughter to life, either. Not ever. His Device could easily have rescued Rose—it could have rescued her a thousand times over. But Gallifrey is so many billions of billions of times more difficult than that, and he just _can't_. He could build a new Gallifrey, an imitation, wishful thinking and tromp l'oeil, but it would only ever be a shadow of the truth. His Gallifrey, the _real_ Gallifrey, is gone. His past and his future are gone.

And the very machine he's worked for more than his span of lives to obtain, worked with obsessive devotion to build, was turned against him at the moment of its completion to affect the destruction of everything he'd been working for.

Yes, the Master thinks. He's earned the right to madness.

*

The Master is still in the early stages of regeneration, the most vulnerable hours of an entire life, when he's forced to confront the unfathomable notion of being stuck, here, like this, in a universe where the Doctor's past self is inaccessible and his present self hates him enough to let him die, enough to let him never have lived at all. His Doctor hates him, and he's alone, all alone, and his daughter is dead, and his TARDIS is dead, and his planet is dead, and he can't hear any of them, not any of them in his head except the Doctor, who said he would always love him, and _hates_ him, now. The Doctor, who's played him for a fool all their lives, with his constant promises and constant betrayals. The Doctor, who flinched when the Master came back, even though he's lived as the only Time Lord in the universe all this time. The Master can feel his cells rewriting themselves, feel every one, but there's nothing in his head but the Doctor and the _noise_ , the noise that won't go away, won't be covered up, and who knew hearts could be so _loud_? He's alone, all alone, in a TARDIS that isn't even his, in a TARDIS that hates him like her master hates him, and that's all wrong because _he_ should be her Master, and she should love him, like her master, her Doctor, his Doctor, should love him, like _everyone_ should love him, and why is it so loud, why are the drums so loud? His daughter loved him, but she's dead, now, and his Susan is dead, he can't hear them, and...and...is there really no one left at all who ever cared for him? The Doctor is loved by so many people, so many of his stupid apes, his stupid humans, his _companions_ , so many petty little races he's saved. _Their_ Doctor, _their_ savior, all those primitive morons laying claim to what was meant to be _his_ , and the Doctor has always loved them better, and it's so loud, better than he's ever loved the Master, because hasn't he taken their side often enough? And then it's clear, so clear, in spite of the noise, in spite of everything.

The humans love the Doctor, and because they love him, the Doctor doesn't think he needs his Master. But humans are petty and puny and stupid; they love the Doctor because he helps them stay alive. (onetwothreeFOUR, onetwothreeFOUR, on and on and _on_.) The Master can help them stay alive, and then they'll love _him_ , and leave the Doctor alone. He promised he would rescue them, in fact, and even though he was a stupid ape himself at the time (onetwothreeFOUR) he keeps his promises, unlike _some_ Time Lords he could name (onetwothreeFOUR). He promised the whole _species_ he'd help them stay alive, promised them diamonds in the sky, and he thinks he must like music in this body, because there's drums in his head, and because he's reminded himself of a human band he hasn't heard since his twelfth body, when the Doctor (who hates him) was stuck on Earth. The Master (onetwothreeFOUR) walks to the door of the Doctor's TARDIS and opens it, then sits on the edge, dangling his feet into the Vortex.

"Picture yourself in a boat on a river," he sings to himself, kicking his feet, and admiring the marmalade skies. Then he frowns. "Not quite right, though. Missing something."

Without turning around, the Master reaches into his pocket, and throws a useless pocketwatch back at the Doctor's console. It hits the randomizer, just like he planned, and the Master isn't at all surprised to find himself landing (very rockily, without anyone manning the stabilizers) on a street on twentieth-century earth, because, to the Doctor (who hates him) (onetwothreeFOUR), random has always meant twentieth-century earth. The Master folds his legs under him just in time to avoid having them snapped off as he lands, and then he's in an alley, not far from a busy street. The Master stands and loiters towards traffic, scanning the pedestrians and the newstands.

THE LAST DAYS OF HARRIET JONES? blares a headline.

"Oh, all right, _early twenty-first century_ , then," yawns the Master (onetwothreeFOUR). "Slightly louder, slightly faster, same old boring humans."

There is a woman walking by. Blonde hair, aristocratic bearing, and eyes just mad enough to be called 'kaleidoscope' if he really wants to stretch. She reminds him of someone (who hates him), a little, several bodies ago, and again several bodies before that. She reminds him of someone else, a girl who was never born, now (onetwothreeFOUR), but who he misses every day. It's enough. Just as she's about to pass, he knocks into her accidentally-on-purpose, scattering the contents of her purse across the pavement.

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry," (onetwothreeFOUR), "do let me help you." A smile he knows is winning, even without ever having seen his own face. "I don't suppose your name happens to be Lucy, does it?"

She thinks he's mad. A smart one, too. "No?"

"It is now." He holds her eyes, and the drums go softer, because _now_ he's in control. "I am the Master. You will obey me." He stops, then adds, with a bright grin, "You will obey me, Lucy."

"I will obey you," she repeats, her eyelashes fluttering.

"Good girl," he says, lifting her by the elbows, and guiding her towards the TARDIS— _his_ TARDIS, though it once belonged to someone else (who hates him). "You're going to be my companion, Lucy. We're going to see the universe together. Tell me, would you like to save the whole human race from a dark and awful death?"

"Yes, Master."

"Hmmm." The Master taps his chin, once, then again, then again, then again. "That may get inconvenient, long-term. I'll have to break you the old-fashioned way, I suppose—an old-fashioned romantic, that's me. Maybe I'll _marry_ you. That would be a lark. Bigamy's one of the few sins I haven't tried yet." He spreads his arms wide, twirling in his alley for his hypnotized audience of one. "You'll need something else to call me." He glances back at those headlines, actually taking them in this time (onetwothreeFOUR). There's an opportunity there, he suspects. And these humans are so resistant to change. Harriet Jones. "Call me Harry, Lucy. I'm your Harry."

"Harry," she echoes, breathlessly. "Yes, Harry."

"Good girl," he repeats, and pulls her into the TARDIS. "Now, I know how this goes. This is the part where you tell me that it's bigger on the inside."

"It's bigger on the inside, Harry," says Lucy, as the TARDIS screeches into motion, heading for the place between space and time.

*

He releases his hypnotic hold somewhere in the Vortex. Lucy doesn't stop screaming until he slaps her, and that feels so _good_ , and keeps the drums so quiet, that he does it again, and again, and harder. Then he pulls her into his arms, and strokes her hair, and tells her he forgives her for making so much noise, and she shakes like a rabbit, and it's very, _very_ good.

The month he spends in the Vortex, breaking Lucy, is one of the best he can remember, except that his headache never, never goes away.

*

He's been so responsible, for so very, very long. He wants to rend and tear and burn. He wants to break.

The Master _likes_ being mad.

*

"There's only so long," the Master tells Lucy, conversationally, staring straight up at her with his head on her lap, "that a man can fool himself. I've worked so hard at being a model husband and father, all these years. And I thought—I really did, I thought—I thought _I_ was the problem, that _I_ wasn't holding up my end. When it turns out, I just had the wrong spouse, and...well, Rose was a good enough daughter, all in all, except she _died_. That wasn't very daughterly of her, was it?"

"I think it was very mean to you, Harry," says Lucy, running her fingers through his hair.

"Yes it was," he agrees. "And the Doctor..."

"Don't lets talk about the Doctor, Harry. It always makes you so upset, and I like to see you happy."

"You think I'm a good husband, don't you, Lucy?"

"You're the best husband in all the universe, darling," says Lucy, and kisses him gently on the lips. "There's nobody more wonderful than you."

"And you're the best idea I've ever had, sweet." The Master sighs, and stretches, and then considers, his forehead wrinkling. "Lucy, do you think we should have a daughter?"

"Well...but, we couldn't be sure a baby would be a girl, Harry. And you'd have to sleep with me, you know."

"Oh." The Master's face falls. "Yes, there is that. And you are so terribly _human_."

"Yes," Lucy agrees, sadly.

The Master pouts. "Oh, chin up! There, look, there's a smile!" He sits up and presses his fingers to the corners of Lucy's mouth, forcing them upwards, then leans in to kiss her, with no small enthusiasm and a fair deal of mess. "I did give human women a fair shake, you know," he comments, once he's got the space. "There was the Queen of Atlantis—god, what a bitch! Such a fuss, and all because I killed her husband."

"That was very ungrateful of her, darling," says Lucy, coolly. "I'm sure you only did it for her own good."

"Yes I did! And then there was Jo Grant. I don't suppose you've ever tried to fuck a hypnotized woman, have you?" The Master isn't at all certain whether he has, either. He doesn't precisely _remember_ fucking Jo, but it's the sort of thing he would have tried, and perhaps that's close enough to count.

"No!" says Lucy, enthusiastic and awestruck and intrigued. "What's it like, Harry?"

"Sticky," the Master wrinkles his nose, "and about as appealing as an Ogron's face. I only mention the Ogrons, of course," he continues, carding his fingers absently through Lucy's hair, then tugging, gently, to a familiar beat, "because they failed me before I could ever tell the Doctor what I'd done to his pet. That was the whole point!"

"That must have been very frustrating," Lucy remarks, her fingers returning to rub the Master's temples as he settles back in her lap.

"Yes, it most certainly was. I could have told him later, of course, but it wouldn't have mattered, then. He always forgets one companion once he's moved on to the next."

Lucy's fingers still. "Aren't I your companion, Harry?"

"Yes, of course you are."

"Will you move on to another one, and forget me?"

"Oh, probably," says the Master, unconcerned. He frowns, butting up against her hands. "Keep rubbing!"

"Harry," says Lucy, slowly, "you wouldn't forget me if we had a daughter, would you?"

"N-ooooo," the Master draws out the syllable. "But that, as we've established, would require sleeping with you, and I've just been telling you, human women are no fun in bed."

"But we could adopt a daughter, couldn't we?"

The Master sits up in a flash, and slaps himself on the forehead. "I forgot! There's somewhere I've been meaning to take you, dearest."

"Somewhere to adopt a baby?"

"Better." The Master grins enormously, a smile that looks like it should tear his face in half, and hopskipsaunters his way to the console. "We're going to adopt a whole _species_. Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted to save the entire human race?"

Lucy thinks hard. "I think so," she says, slowly, "only, it feels like I was asleep. Was I dreaming?"

"You were hypnotized."

"Oh. Am I hypnotized now?"

"Nope!" the Master proclaims, triumphant. "You're _mad_ , now. Just like me!"

Lucy blinks. "Am I?"

"Well, I certainly hope so," the Master calls back over his shoulder, "or else you've got a very strange idea of sanity. I'd not like to think I was traveling with someone who was mad _already_." He scowls. " _I_ did that."

"Of course you did, darling." Lucy nestles her chin into his shoulder. "Where are we going?"

"The end of the universe!" the Master chirps, and charts out a course for Utopia.

*

"Harry, it's _horrible_ ," Lucy whispers, wide-eyed, clinging to his arm. "I don't like it here at _all_. Can't we go home?"

"Back to the TARDIS?"

"Back to England. Back to Earth. Please, Harry, I want to go home."

The Master shoves her away, roughly. "What do you know? I'm the king here. All my little children, afraid of the dark, begging me to save them. What does Earth have that can compare to _that_?"

Lucy bites her lip, thinking hard. "You could be king on Earth, too, Harry."

"And how, pray tell? Your pathetic species has a history of resisting my benevolent dominance."

"Our children would fight for you, Harry. They would be your army. They would do anything, if you brought them out of the dark. And then you could kill anybody on Earth who resisted, until only the good, obedient humans were left, the ones who know how kind you are, darling."

"You think I should kill your own species, Lucy?"

"This is my species," Lucy says, looking around at the wretched bundles of humanity cluttering the ground around them, many huddled into little groups to conserve their body heat against the encroaching cold. "What's the good of living, if this is what we're going to become? But you can save us. Please, Harry, save our children!"

"If I use future humans as soldiers against their own ancestors, I risk tearing the fabric of time to shreds. It would create the most horrible..." He stops dead. And then he says slowly, dreamlike, "...paradox." The Master's eyes are wide and glassy, and then suddenly he throws his head back and laughs, louder and longer than he can ever remember laughing in his life. The future humans at his feet quiver in terror; they haven't heard anybody laugh for many, many years.

"A paradox to save my children!" the Master shouts. "Lucy, Lucy, a _paradox_!" He laughs, and skips, and kisses Lucy quick and hard. "Do you hear _that_ , Doctor? Oh, I'm a _genius_!" He pulls her with him, dancing through the corridors. "Come on, come on, back to the TARDIS! We have work to do!" As they're walking through the door, the gears of his mind spinning a billion light years a second, he tells her, "On Gallifrey, we had a special name for the thing that lives in the dark, the one you don't want to meet, the thing children are afraid of." He shuts the door behind her, and dashes for the laboratory.

"Toclafane!" the Master shouts back over his shoulder. "We'll call them Toclafane!"

*

"Lucy," moans Harry Saxon, curling up against his wife. "Lucy, it hurts. My head _hurts_. Why won't they stop? Make them _stop_ , Lucy."

"Shhh," she soothes, cradling him. "It's all right, Harry."

"No, it isn't all right! What good are you if you can't even stop the noise in my head?"

"Do you want me to call for a doctor, love?"

"He wouldn't come, anyway," the Master mutters, and falls into an uneasy doze, dreaming of boogeymen and Archangels and a very old young man in a pinstripe suit.

*

He'll never know what the Doctor sees in the surface of this planet. He has to admit, though, it's not so bad from above. As soon as the Valiant is operational, he takes to spending as much time there as possible. There's a practical reason, anyhow: he has a paradox to be building.

It's stunningly simple—anticlimactically simple, seeing that he's been working towards this since he was one hundred and thirty years old, practically still in diapers. This is hardly the first paradox machine that has ever been built. Actually, it's a very old theory. But those have all been temporary affairs constructed by men who, for one reason or another, needed to change the universe for just a little while. It takes a tremendous amount of power to sustain a paradox, nearly enough to feed the whole of the universe for as long as it exists, and there's never been a stable enough source of that power to permit the creation of a paradox that will last as long as the universe that hosts it. His is the first permanent paradox, the very first one in the history of time, and he intends to do it right. He slaves over every detail, but even so, it's only a week before the physical work that marks the culmination of so many centuries of research is put into place. When he activates it, the entire future will unravel, and weave itself back together into something strong and shiny and new. Now all that's left to do is wait for the opportune moment.

As has been true of so very much of the Master's life, the opportune moment depends on the Doctor.

*

As Minister of Defense, Harold Saxon has legal access to every public security camera in England, and the necessary technology at his fingertips to illegally access all the private ones. The very first thing he does on his first day in office is to program every one of those cameras to recognize the Doctor, and inform the Master the moment he arrives. The Master doesn't for an instant expect that the Doctor will die at the end of the universe. For one thing, he remembers the Vortex manipulator on Jack Harkness's arm, and knows what _he_ would do in the same situation. For another thing, the Doctor hasn't been among the refugees at Utopia on any of the Master's visits. Most importantly, though, this is the _Doctor_. Only two Time Lords in the universe were clever enough to survive the War, and the Doctor was one. Being stuck in a lab on a dying world isn't enough to give the Doctor a papercut, much less to _kill_ him.

Of course, he's completely right. Minister Saxon has become Prime Minister Saxon by the time the lazybones Doctor deigns to show his spiky-headed face, but his cameras are as loyal as ever. He gets the news just before the media finds him, and it's so serendipitous he knows it's all meant to be. He pulls Lucy into a long kiss, as a nice, "And what do you think about _that_?" to the man he knows is watching, and then proceeds to rub it in.

"What this country needs," says Harry Saxon, smiling for the camera, "is a Doctor."

*

He is the very first Prime Minister to murder his entire cabinet on his first day in office.

The Master always enjoys making history.

*

That first telephone conversation with the Doctor is a complex game of double, triple, quadruple bluffs, lie within lie within lie. The Master knows that memory loss, the permanent kind, is a frequent side-effect of using a chameleon arch. And so he twists, and mangles, and mashes his details through a sieve, and asks questions to which he already knows the answers. He pretends that he's forgotten or misremembered the events of the War, the ones that will never, ever leave his mind. And he listens as the Doctor tells the truth, and cherishes the power of his own disinformation. Only once in the whole of their discussion of the past—before it devolves into the minutiae of the present—is the Master honest.

He does love it when the Doctor says his name.

*

"Harry, when are you going to bring our children home?"

"I told you, darling—only a few more hours."

"But that reporter woman, she..."

"Shhhhh." The Master kisses his wife on the brow. "We didn't have our audience before, sweet. But now he's here. He's here watching."

"Who's here, Harry?"

"Never mind, Lucy."

"The Doctor," she says suddenly, her voice much sharper than usual. "When you don't want to tell me, it's always the Doctor."

Something about that hardening in Lucy throws the Master. "Then why ask me, if you already know, hmm?" he snaps. "I don't intend to discuss it further."

They are standing on a windy airstrip, waiting for the President of the United States, who turns out to be precisely the sort of pompous gasbag the Master is going to _love_ killing. The Master stands in his overcoat, the one with the red silk lining that he bought because it reminded him of a dandy he once knew on this planet, very long ago. He talks to Lucy, and then to the absurd American, and pretends and pretends that he can't see out of the corner of his own eye. He has a nice little taunt with the Joneses, and heads off for the Valiant, pretending and pretending all the while. But as soon as he's off the airstrip, he settles down with a glass of bourbon, and has a good laugh.

As though a perception filter could possibly work on him, when the Doctor is the one thing he's _always_ trying to see.

*

He's never really tried, before, with one of his schemes. The Master knows that now. He's been faking it for a thousand years.

As facts to rub in the face of a hated spouse go, 'I've been faking it for a thousand years' does have a nice, classic ring about it.

The Toclafane plot goes off _flawlessly_. His paradox machine is a thing of perfect beauty. Killing that idiot Winters is indeed supremely satisfying. Finally giving in to that old instinct to kill Jack the Freak is supremely satisfying, too. Lucy is by his side, just as sweet and lovely as the Master made her to be. And all right, yes, so the Jones girl gets away, but that one tiny hiccup is nothing compared to the fact that the Doctor is there. The Doctor is right there in front of him.

The Master funded the experiments at Lazarus Labs for one reason and one reason alone. He fed them the plans for the sonic microfield manipulator in hopes that they could manage the comparatively simple tasks of making that technology reversible and of miniaturizing it. They'd succeeded admirably. The Master has so many ways of killing—he could build himself a new TCE in four beats of his drums. But this particular technology has very specific significance. It's the very same tech that made the first Doctor an old man, all those endless centuries ago, when they were young and strong, and had a planet, and a daughter. It's what made the Doctor look as he did, the last time he _truly_ belonged to the Master. It's what marked the very first crack between them, the tiny fissure that split them in half when Rose's death shoved in a chisel and the Doctor slammed down the hammer.

Somehow, the Master thinks that it's entirely fitting that this newer, deeper, completely unbridgeable rift should be celebrated in similar fashion.

This Doctor ages much less gracefully than his first self did. More wrinkles, and less hair, and so much more heaviness in his eyes—though that was there already. And still, there's no one the Master would rather look at. Still, there's no one he would rather share this planet with, the one his Toclafane are tearing all to bits.

"And so it came to pass that the human race fell, and the Earth was no more. And I looked down upon my new dominion as Master of all, and I thought it good."

*

It's not nearly as much fun as it should be, playing Master of Earth.

For one thing, there's no challenge in it. He's got past the hard part. The world is _his_. He's saved his Toclafane, and set them free to wreak havoc on the planet that always snubbed him, the one the Doctor always loved best. True, the Doctor's genetic makeup was always vastly more Time Lord than human, but if he can murder the Master's species, the Master can murder what is left of his. So he takes the Toclafane off the leash, and lets them kill as they like. Only the humans up here with him in the Valiant are safe.

But the humans on the Valiant are beginning to bore him, too. Lucy's adoration has lost its glow. The Joneses' petulance has always been dull. And the Doctor isn't helping _anything_.

The Master thought that the best part of this plan would be capturing the Doctor. Not because he wants the Doctor back in his heart or his bed—the Master never so much as lays a finger on him. No, it's vengeance the Master is after. The Doctor _destroyed_ their _planet_. Not that the Master would be inclined to care about that, really. He never had any love for the Time Lords as a species. But it's all the Doctor's fault that the Master never got his chance for the paradox he actually wanted. It's the Doctor's fault that their daughter, if anything in the universe but their own memories is to be trusted, was never born. It's the Doctor's fault that, technically, they were never married, were never boys together, never fell in love, never had a first kiss, never had a granddaughter. There was never a Gallifrey, and that means all the things that ever happened on Gallifrey simply don't count anymore. They never had anything but this—this endless antagonism, interspersed with bouts of unfitting, uncharacteristic affection. They never had anything but enmity and lust and hatred, bitter memories and misplaced hopes. Their good times never were. There bad times are preserved, brittle and secure as a fly in amber or a petrified forest. The Doctor has erased his own love, and retained his own betrayal. In fact, the very first act of the Time Lord race in this universe, nowadays, was the Doctor's first abandonment of his Master, flying away from Gallifrey out into space

The Master forgave that first betrayal, because he used to be generous, and used to be a fool. But he won't forgive this second one, won't forgive the Doctor for sending him off to die at the end of the War, sending him off to a place where the beat of endless, endless drums could crowd and shove their way into his skull, to pound and pound and pound and _pound_. And the Doctor isn't helping _anything_.

He won't talk. The Master tries. He tries taunts and threats and bribery and teasing. At first, the Doctor says absolutely nothing at all. The Master lets things slip, slowly. He knows the very moment when the Doctor realizes that the Master remembers the War properly, after all. All this time, the Doctor's been thinking that the Master doesn't understand the depth of the Doctor's treachery. He's been thinking that the Master is operating on some sort of instinct, left over from their days as cosmic duelists, or from a desire to punish the Doctor for the destruction of Gallifrey alone. But three weeks into the Doctor's imprisonment, the Master makes some double-edged remark that turns on the light bulb in the Doctor's brain. And then, for a very short while, the Doctor stops staring into nothingness. He finally wakes up, and makes a grab at the Master's arm.

"I have one thing to say to you," the Doctor's voice croaks, ancient and disused.

The Master can feel the words brush past him, butting up against him like a cat angling for a petting. He remembers the very last thing he said to the Doctor back before everything changed, on the last night of the War. He remembers sleepily begging the Doctor's forgiveness for that very oldest of their mutual sins, asking his pardon for Rose's death after all those many years. And he feels that forgiveness tickling against his consciousness now, and shoves the Doctor roughly away.

"I don't want to hear it, Doctor. Not that. You've forfeited the right."

The Master doesn't want to hear about Rose. He doesn't want to talk about Rose. He doesn't want to _think_ about Rose. Not anymore. As far as he's concerned, their debts are settled on that score: the Master may have killed their daughter, but the Doctor made it impossible to bring her back to life. Rose is the one sacred thing, the single taboo never ever to be spoken. He doesn't need the Doctor's forgiveness. He doesn't want it. He wants the Doctor to talk, yes, to say anything but that. But that, it turns out, is the only thing the Doctor _will_ say, and so they find themselves at an impasse.

The Master thinks it's fair to say the Doctor isn't helping _anything_.

Finally, from sheer pique, the Master begins aging the Doctor as a habit, pushing him older and older and older. Every time the Doctor refuses to respond—every time he proves that he's just no _fun_ anymore—the Master takes a few more years, until, finally, there are no more years to take. The Doctor looks every bit as ancient as he is, a tiny, grotesque, shriveled creature, a full fifteen hundred years old. The Master builds himself an enormous birdcage, with his own two hands—because what else is there to do with his time, now?—and confines the Doctor to it.

It ought to be funny. It isn't. It's just as dull as everything else.

The Master thinks he might go mad (as though he weren't mad already) if not for the fact that _one_ person on the Valiant still has some spirit. The Master had believed that the Doctor was unbreakable, and either he is, and that's the problem, or he isn't, and that's a worse one. But whichever it is, the Master's found somebody even less breakable than his Doctor, and yet so very easy to hurt. Not only that—somebody who _deserves_ anything the Master can give him, because don't these humans believe in "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's husband," and hasn't Jack Harkness devoted his life to doing precisely that?

*

"You're in love with him."

It's been two months on the Valiant. The Master has tortured Jack Harkness in most every way he can think of. He's killed the man at least two dozen times. But he's been saving the jugular for a special occasion. And today is very special—today, the Master may actually fling himself off this flying machine and out into the open air if he doesn't get some relief for his boredom.

"Do you want some kind of medal for noticing? Everybody in the universe knows I'm in love with him, with the possible exception of the man himself."

"Oh, don't fool yourself," the Master smiles, wide and smug, "the man himself is very, very well aware. He just doesn't want to _hurt_ you, the sap."

"Fortunately, you have no such scruples." The Master will admit, this man impresses him at times. Few men grasp the notion that driving your enemy's knife into yourself means you can avoid any of the really important organs. Jack stealing the Master's lines is obnoxious, yes, but the Master does respect it, tactically speaking.

"Fortunately," he agrees, amiably. "And there are so many ways of hurting you I still have left to try."

"But you're tired of the physical ones, and have decided the heart on my sleeve is a better target. What's the angle going to be—that the Doctor won't ever look twice at me because I'm human? Because I'm a freak? Or are you going to go for 'because he's so madly in love with his Master?'"

"I do like to have a nice menu of options. Very considerate of you, abomination." The Master stretches in his chair. "Why choose, that's what I say? More is more. And they're all true, naturally."

Jack laughs, a raw, wry bark. "Do you think so? That's quite the gift you've just handed me, Master. Do you know how good it feels, for _me_ to have a reason to feel sorry for _you_ right now?"

The Master refuses to let it touch him. "That's me: the Master, Great and Good. I figure, one or two little token gestures, and soon I'll be the Time Lord you're slavering over instead. And that'd make you even more fun to hurt!"

"I hate to be the one to tell you, Master," says Jack, "but I've seen the Doctor in love, and that's sure as hell not the way he looks at you. See, I've known from the beginning that I could never have him. I'll never have to live through the kind of fall you're heading for."

The Master knows that can't be true. He's absolutely certain it can't. All the same, his voice is just a hint sharper when he says, "Somehow I find that very difficult to believe. But go ahead—spin me a pretty story about the Doctor's Grand Passion. Then I can look inside your head, and see that it's a lie."

Jack smiles, one the Master knows well, the smile of an un-bluff called. "Look, if you like. I can't wait to see what you think of Rose."

The Master goes absolutely, deadly still.

"What did you just say?" he asks, very, very softly.

Jack raises his eyebrow. He's far too sensitive to these things to fail to recognize when he scores a hit, though clearly he doesn't know how he's just scored it. "You'll have another thing coming, once you get a look at the Doctor with Rose."

All the color has drained from the Master's face. His head is spinning, and his stomach has dropped to somewhere below his knees. His drums aren't pounding—they've gone silent, with a silence more intense than any sound. He remembers, suddenly, something he should never have forgotten: he's heard Jack use the name Rose before, talking to the Doctor on Malcassairo. Only an event as pivotal as his transformation back to a Time Lord could be enough to make the Master forget something as important as _that_. But it can't be the same Rose. It can't. Jack can't be talking about _his_ Rose, the daughter who has been the ghost on the Master's shoulder all these years. And then again, how could Jack possibly have a conversation with the Doctor, of all people, about any other Rose than theirs?

"Describe this Rose to me," he says, quiet, still, and dangerously calm.

Jack tilts his head, confused. "Blonde. Brown eyes. About yea high," he gestures to his shoulder with his head, hands still chained. "Cute. Great smile. Nice tits—not too much, just enough. Brave. Smart. Wouldn't be messed around. Great dancer. And just as crazy about the Doctor as he was about her."

The physical description fits. It all fits. But _surely_ Jack would have mentioned 'Time Lady' if he meant the real Rose. "And where is she now, if she and the Doctor got along so well?"

"The Doctor told me she got trapped on a parallel world."

Oh. Oh _god_. The Master's been assuming there are no more Time Lords, except the Doctor, because he couldn't feel them. He hadn't even considered the possibility of survivors in other universes. There was only ever one Gallifrey. Rassilon's protections had made all possible Gallifreys both single and pan-universal, inhabiting this universe but not precisely situated within it. There never were any parallel Time Lords. But if a Time Lord or Time Lady had left this universe...would the Master still feel them in his head? Is it possible, just possible, that the Doctor rescued Rose before he ended the War? Is it possible his daughter is out there, somewhere, beyond the reach of the Master's senses?

The Master is through wasting time with questions. He has to know, for certain, _now_. Reaching out, he takes hold of Jack's head, one hand on each side of his skull, and pulls out the psychic equivalent of a butcher's cleaver.

Human brains aren't built for psychic contact. They don't have the mechanisms to permit them to open, cleanly and efficiently, and allow another mind in. One way or another, if a telepath wants inside, he's going to have to cut or blast or force his way. It can be done with surgical precision, a scalpel incision, barely painful to the human mind at all. But that takes time, and the Master has no interest in being gentle. He hacks and tears and slashes instead, noting with satisfaction Jack's howls of agony.

Jack has just been thinking about Rose Tyler, and so the Master hasn't got far to look for those memories. The face hits him like an anvil to the head. He knows that face—how could he help knowing that face—how could he possibly...except, something is wrong. One instant, seen from one angle, wearing one expression, it's the Master's daughter. But by the next frame of Jack's memory, the girl he's watching is a stranger. The Master looks more carefully now, searching the details. Rose never wore her hair like that, never wore human clothes, but that proves very little. But she's got the wrong teeth, and she's got the wrong voice, with the wrong accent, and, perhaps most damning of all, the way she moves is all, all wrong.

The Master has played more than a few parts in his time—his stolen Trakenite self, in particular, was fond of masquerades and disguises. He knows that there's nothing more deeply-seated, more difficult to alter, than a manner of walking and moving. Physical mannerisms are a matter of muscle memory, subconscious, nearly impossible to intentionally alter. And this girl in Jack Harkness's memory doesn't move like the Master's Rose. It's the princess and the pauper—this girl is all angular human awkwardness, nothing of his Rose's grace.

The Master pulls out of Jack's mind, hurting and in shock and with no idea what's just happened to him. "What have you got in your head?" he whispers, more to himself than to Jack.

"The truth." Jack's voice is still unsteady from the pain of the Master's forced entry into his brain. "Only the truth."

The Master shakes his own head, violently. "It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make _sense_!"

"What doesn't? That the Doctor could ever love anybody but you?"

"Of course he loved her," the Master brushes off, his head still spinning, not really listening. "Stop talking, I need to _think_."

"Really? Is that your attitude, then?" Jack shows a remarkable tendency to disobey orders for a man chained up and at the Master's mercy. "That's awfully broadminded of you, Master. I wouldn't have thought you were the kinda guy who would just say, 'What do I care? Let 'im fuck whatever pretty blonde he likes.'"

 _That_ manages to cut through the fog of the Master's mind. His eyes snap up to Jack's face. "What do you mean, 'fuck?'"

"Do you need the term explained for you? Well, you see, Master, little boys and little girls aren't built _exactly_ the same. Underneath those skirts..."

The Master has run to the end of his never-excessive patience with the freak. He strikes out and belts Jack across the face, backhand, the dull sound of impact not nearly as satisfyingly ringing as it ought to be. The Master's breath is coming in rough pants. "Are you trying to make me believe," he asks, "that the Doctor was sleeping with the woman I saw in your head?" The one who could pass as his own daughter's twin, who shares her name, who cannot possibly be just a cosmic accident...

"I don't care whether you believe it or not," says Jack. "I know what I know."

The Master is shaking now. His drums have come back. They are loud in a way that makes 'deafening' seem like a whisper. "You're wrong."

"I'm not."

"You're _wrong_."

"I'm really not."

As weapons go, the Master prefers his laser screwdriver. But he carries a gun, because he can, and because there's no reason not to. And because sometimes in life, the only possible thing to do is fire twenty rounds at point blank range into a man who deserves it, and will be ready and waiting to take another twenty rounds tomorrow morning, and again the morning after that.

"You're wrong," the Master informs the temporary corpse of Captain Jack Harkness. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, and fastidiously wipes away a drop of blood from his own cheek. And then he turns and leaves the room, his semi-automatic still clutched in his hand.

It's time he and the Doctor had a very, _very_ serious chat.


	12. Chapter 12

On his way to the Doctor's cage in the main control room, the Master stops by his own quarters. Lucy is sitting in an armchair, reading. The Master doesn't say anything. He just grabs her with the hand that isn't holding his gun, clutching her arm hard enough that she's certain to have bruises. He drags her with him, ignoring her plaintive questioning, and throws her roughly into the room before him once the doors open. Then he's dragging her again, up to the Doctor's cage.

The Master doesn't say anything. He lets Lucy go so he can pull his laser screwdriver from his pocket, left-handed, and point it at the Doctor. He can't have this conversation with that shriveled little puppet of a man, and anyway, the de-aging process is excruciatingly painful. 'Excruciatingly pained' is _exactly_ how he wants to see the Doctor right now.

The Doctor doesn't scream. The Master decides it's better that way. The Doctor can't keep the agony off his face, at any rate, and this Doctor trying to be stoic is a treat in and of itself. Soon enough he's left gasping on the floor of his birdcage, his old young self again. He's also completely naked, his far-too-small clothes having split and fallen away in the process.

"Doctor," says the Master, his first word since entering, "you've never congratulated me on my marriage. That's very churlish of you."

The Doctor doesn't say anything, continuing that infuriating silence he's maintained for the past two months. The Master unlocks his cage, drags him out as roughly as he did Lucy, and tosses him onto the ground at Lucy's feet. "In fact," the Master continues, slipping his screwdriver back into his pocket, "you and Lucy have never even been formally introduced. Mrs. Lucy Saxon, the Doctor. Say hello, Lucy."

"Hello, Doctor," she says, warily, one eye on the Master and the other on the naked Doctor sprawled across the floor.

"Say hello, Doctor." The Doctor remains obstinately silent. "Do you like her, Doctor? I chose her for her looks, of course. Not as much like Rose as I might have hoped, but I was working fast, and had to take what I could get."

The Doctor looks up, incredulous, at the sound of the name 'Rose.' "Yes," says the Master, running the muzzle of his gun over Lucy's cheek in a macabre imitation of a caress, "not so bad at all, I think. And because I chose her not so much for a wife as to be like our daughter," the Master continues, "I haven't slept with her. I wouldn't do that, you see. It would be fairly disgusting, wouldn't it, to fuck the woman I picked up as a substitute for my little girl? There's no denying my mind is twisted—I'm quite proud of it, you know—but even I wouldn't stoop to _that_."

The Master pauses, looks hard at the Doctor. He doesn't flinch. "But today I thought to myself, being the generous man I am, I thought, poor Lucy. She's got as much right to a good hard fuck as the next woman. And she has been such a very good wife. So sweet and supportive, such a bright presence around the place. I'd not like to deny her anything she wanted. And I was sitting and turning this problem over in my head, and, being the genius that I am, naturally a solution presented itself to me." The Master's drums are pounding a ragged staccato, so loud he can hardly hear himself speak. He points his gun at the Doctor's head. " _You're_ going to do it for me."

The Doctor's eyes widen. "You're mad," he whispers. They're the first words the Doctor has spoken in two months, besides the perpetual, 'I have one thing to say to you.'

"True, very true, but hardly to the point. And not at all kind to poor Lucy. You want the Doctor to fuck you, don't you, Lucy?" The Master turns to look at her. Her eyes are even wider than the Doctor's, and, before she's managed to say anything, he turns away, back to the Doctor. "Never mind. I don't really care what _you_ think about it."

"I won't," the Doctor rasps, a little louder.

"Ah, but you will, Doctor. Because, you see, if you don't," the Master's gun arm swivels suddenly away from the Doctor, "I'll shoot _her_ instead."

"Harry!"

"Be _quiet_." The Master brings the heel of his gun down on Lucy's temple, and she crumples, conscious but whimpering in pain, on the floor beside the Doctor. "You _will_ , Doctor, and you're going to like it. Do you know how I know you're going to like it?" He drops, squatting on his haunches beside them, gun pointed at Lucy's head. "I've just been having a conversation with your pet freak. Such interesting memories he has, would you like to hear? He was telling me all about the last human woman you kept around to warm your bed. Well, of course I thought he was lying. Such _hurtful_ slanders that man comes up with, I can't _imagine_ why. So I just popped into his head to have a look." The Master's eyes haven't precisely been gentle all this while, but suddenly they're so hard he thinks he may cut his own eyelids if he blinks. "If you can fuck a woman with your own daughter's face, Doctor, not to mention her name, I don't see how you can possibly object to Lucy."

The Doctor's face has suddenly gone very, very pale. He has _finally_ lost that eternal cool. "I didn't. Master, I swear I didn't, I..."

The Master thumbs off the safety. "You'll do as I tell you, Doctor."

"Master, I didn't sleep with her! I swear, I swear to you, I..."

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Doctor! You won't make me believe..."

" _Please_ , Master, you _have_ to believe me! I didn't, I would never..."

The Master points his gun down, and shoots Lucy in the leg.

Lucy screams, loud and long and high. The door bursts open, and five guards rush in. The Master is still staring at the Doctor, his gun still pointed straight at Lucy.

"There's been an accident," says the Master. "Take Mrs. Saxon to the medical wing right away." The guards don't move. The Master snarls, "Do as you're _told_!" He turns his eyes up to them, just for a moment, and they scramble to lift Lucy, panicked, one of them pressing his hands to the hole in her calf, red oozing and gushing around his fingers.

"Harry!" she screams. "Please, Harry, don't leave me alone! Harry, Harry! Why, Harry? Why?" She goes on screaming as they carry her away. The Master doesn't so much as look, just keeps staring at the Doctor. The Doctor's bare white skin is dotted with Lucy's blood, in specks and spatters that form new constellations, new red worlds to replace the one he tore out of the sky.

"Master," the Doctor whispers, so urgent it may as well be a shout, "I'll answer any question you want. Anything, anything at all, I swear I'll tell the whole truth. I didn't sleep with Rose Tyler. Master, I swear to you, I didn't. I'll tell you all about her. Just put the gun down, Master. Don't hurt anybody else. Please, Master, put it down. I _swear_ it wasn't like that, no matter what Jack said. You _can't_ think I would have done that, Master. You know I wouldn't. You _know_ I wouldn't. Put the gun down, Master, _please_."

The Master doesn't entirely obey. Still staring hard at the Doctor, he slips it into his pocket, instead. The Master's black silk bathrobe is lying on a nearby chair, abandoned during one of his late-night rambles. He stands and takes it, still not looking away from the Doctor, and tosses it to him. "Put something on," the Master growls, sitting on the floor beside the Doctor, "and then start talking."

The Doctor reaches back into his cage, and pulls out one of the tattered fragments of his old clothes. As carefully as he can, he wipes the drops of Lucy's blood from his side, but they smear and streak, leaving rusty striations across his skin. Then he shrugs into the bathrobe, and belts it. The Master's not a large man in this body, not remotely, but the Doctor is so scrawny now that the robe would seem to swallow him whole, were it not for the long stretches of arm and leg left exposed.

"I'm waiting, Doctor." There is no sympathy in the Master's tone.

"It was after the War," says the Doctor. "That's when it started. It was after the War, and you were dead. I thought you were dead. I thought everyone was dead, and that I killed them. I thought I killed you."

"That isn't what I asked about, Doctor. I want..."

"I'll get to that. You have to know the why. I'll tell you all of it, Master, if you'll just listen," says the Doctor.

The Master doesn't nod. But he gives a grudging wriggle of his lips, and the Doctor nods, instead. Infuriatingly, he isn't even looking at the Master; his eyes are staring into nothing, just to the right of the Master's ear. But he's talking.

"I told you once that I changed into the body I wore in the War because I needed to be a little bit broken, or I'd break. It was a good theory, as it went. But it didn't really help, Master. It didn't help at all. I died too, in the explosion that killed Gallifrey, you know. But I woke up. I woke up in my ninth regeneration, completely and totally alone, and nothing could stop me breaking, then. I did, Master. I was insane. I was really, really insane, and I was so, so, so, so, so _alone_."

The Doctor stares in silence for a long minute. The Master doesn't interrupt, though he isn't sure why. "I wouldn't have done it, otherwise," the Doctor says, finally. "But I needed somebody. I needed _somebody_. I was on Earth, and I was so lonely, Master. Every human looked the same, just a face, walking by. It wasn't anything like it used to be. I couldn't see them as people. There was no...no potential in them, no spark. I wanted another Time Lord—I _needed_ another Time Lord, and I couldn't have one, not ever, not ever again. So I thought, well, maybe I could come close. Maybe I could _almost_ have that.

"I found a human couple who were expecting, the Tylers, and I...I kidnapped them. Just for a few hours, so I could...so I could...adjust their baby's genes. It was wrong, I know it was. I felt so guilty for it afterwards, Master, but I've told you, I was honestly insane. I couldn't make it a Time Lord child; she'd never have managed to carry to term if I'd tried. But I...I thought...the idea of watching Rose grow up again, watching her _live_ , was...so I came as close as I could. Physically, she was just as near a copy as she could be. I didn't do anything to her mind, honestly I didn't. I still had some scruples. But I thought, well, she had to have a face, some way or another, and Rose's was a very nice face indeed, so what harm was I doing her, really? And I thought, well, she's got to have a name, too, and what other name _could_ she have, so I nudged the suggestion into her parents' brains.

"When it was done I wiped the whole thing from her parents' memories and sent them home, and after she was born I didn't interfere. Funny, isn't it, that we were always the Time Lords who _did_ interfere, and after the War all I wanted to do was watch? I watched her grow up, stopped by through her childhood, just to see her smiling our Rose's smile. Only she grew up different, of course. How could she not? She was human, and living in such different circumstances. Even if a first look would sometimes fool me, the second she opened her mouth she was so clearly not our Rosamaracandrasalcha. And that was good—I was so glad of that. It made me feel...better. Different. Less guilty, and more contented.

"I didn't ever plan to have anything to do with her. I was going to just let her live her life, just watch. But Miss Rose Tyler just _had_ to go get herself caught up with a Nestene invasion, and...Master, she was just our Rose's age. I mean, she _looked_ the same age Rose was when she died. And it felt like...like if she died, it would be my fault. The universe punishing an innocent girl for _my_ crimes. And I just couldn't. I couldn't stand by and let her be killed, too.

"So I rescued her from the Nestene, and then it was all habit: have a good adventure with a human— _she_ saved _my_ life—and the thing to do is invite them on the TARDIS. That's just standard protocol. And she said yes. So there I was, flying around the universe with a girl who looked just like our daughter, a girl I'd _made_ , in some very real sense.

"It wasn't like having the real Rose back. But it was like having her sister, her twin. They were so different in some ways, and so very much the same in others. It was so easy to love her. Not the way Jack told you. She was my daughter, Master. I loved her as another daughter—not as the same Rose, but another one. The problem of it was...humans, they don't understand these things. She _knew_ I was...well, I told her nine hundred. Something about that thousand-year mark scares human beings; telling her I was 1,479 would have petrified her. Point is, she knew perfectly well that I was old enough to be not only her father, but her distant ancestor. But she only saw as many years as my body seemed to be, most of the time, and she could tell how much I cared. And here I was, showing her the wonders of the universe, and we were having the most incredible adventures.

"I should have seen it. I tried not to see it. It took me a long time to understand that she was falling in love with me, and not in the innocent way that I loved her.

"When I realized how she felt, I had no idea what to do. It still felt like I needed her. I was still so afraid of being alone. But the choice didn't end up being mine. She was pulled into a parallel world. If I'd really tried, there were ways I could have got her back. But I knew it was better that way. It was better than breaking her heart, and certainly better than telling her the truth. She deserved more than playing the role of a dead girl for the rest of her life. And she was with her family, and safe. So I let her go." The Doctor, arms wrapped around his silk-covered knees, finally looks over at the Master. "No comment?"

The Master's not certain he can even _believe_ the story the Doctor just told him. "Doctor," he says finally, "permit me to be the first to say, as a man who knows whereof he speaks, that that is very, _very_ fucked up."

"I know," says the Doctor, miserably. "Believe me, Master, I do know. After I lost her, I went to visit my friend Sigmund, and afterwards he wrote a nice little treatise about Oedipus. But you don't understand how broken I was, you really, really don't."

"If you were so desperate to have _someone_ ," the Master continues, "you couldn't have come looking for _me_? Seeing as how I was alive and real and all? Doctor, you _met_ me, in the same bloody body you'd left me in! How could you not have known?"

"It was the first thing I thought of when I saw you, Master, of course it was. But I couldn't believe it. I couldn't let myself believe it. The resemblance was uncanny, yes, but I _knew_ the Professor wasn't a Time Lord, and you'd aged, and shaved off the beard, and you didn't recognize me, and I didn't have any hope left, Master. I just didn't. You were so like you that I couldn't help wanting you, but I couldn't believe that it _was_ you until I felt you in my head."

"I was _wearing a pocket-watch_ , Doctor..."

"Master, do you know how hard I hoped you were out there somewhere, when it first happened? For six months after the War, six months I did nothing but wander around London—that's where I thought you'd go, if you were looking for me—and follow around every man I saw on the street with a smirk and a goatee. _Every one_ , Master. There was one, three months in, who was dressed in black, and smoking a cigar, with intelligent eyes, and I thought, 'surely it couldn't be anyone else,' and I followed him for so long they threw me in gaol for general creepiness. You'd understand better if you'd ever seen that self; he did have a sort of...air of menace, about him. I used to wear quite a lot of leather. Well, a jacket, anyhow. You weren't around, and one of us had to have the black leather thing covered."

The Master says slowly, "Doctor, in what universe would it help your cause to inform me that you went through your leather phase without me?"

The Doctor bites his lip, and the Master fights down his smirk, because they're not allowed to laugh together, not right now, even when they want to.

"Perhaps it _was_ poor timing," the Doctor agrees, mock-seriously.

"Why did you do it, Doctor?" the Master asks suddenly, the real question they've been dancing around.

"The leather? I just said..."

"Gallifrey. Before all this Rose Tyler business, there was still the small matter of you tearing our planet out of time. How could your brain possibly have hopped to 'destroy everything' right out the gate, without trying _any_ other plan? That's not _you_ , Doctor. That isn't Mr. 'There Should Have Been A Better Way' at _all_."

The Doctor freezes. 'Stricken' doesn't come close to describing his expression. He swallows hard, and says, barely above a whisper, "It didn't. My brain. Right out the gate. It didn't. There was...that wasn't the first thing I tried, on the last night of the War."

"But how could you have, in only the few hours I was asleep? Surely you couldn't..." The Master stops dead. He looks at the Doctor, whose lips tremble for a moment. He's not coward enough to look away, but it's very, very obvious he wants to.

"You. Utter. _Bastard_ ," the Master gasps, hardly able to formulate the ideas, much less the words. "You bloody, stinking, treacherous, _worthless_...you...you..." Words aren't enough. Words aren't nearly, nearly enough. His fist colliding with the Doctor's jaw isn't nearly enough either, but it's a start. The Doctor takes the punch with a tiny but satisfying little pained noise, and then the Master is dragging him up by the lapels of his robe, and pinning him against the nearest wall.

"You built _my_ paradox without me! You stole _my_ designs, and you went and built _my_ paradox and left me to _die_! Didn't you?" the Master is screaming, shaking the Doctor. "Didn't you?" he screeches, thumping the Doctor's head hard against the wall.

"Yes," the Doctor whispers. "Yes, I did, but I..."

The Master screams and _attacks_ , haphazard, inelegant, kicking and hitting and scratching and clawing and and biting and tearing into the Doctor any way he knows how. The Doctor barely even makes a token resistance, but when his lungs can draw breath he chokes out the words, "I've been...punished...for that already...Master, really, I...it was horrible, it was...it was the worst thing I've ever..."

"You got to see our _daughter_ again, Doctor!" the Master bellows. "That _is_ when you went back to, isn't it?"

"Yes," the Doctor says. "Yes it was, but..."

"Then how the _fuck_ can you stand there and tell me it was horrible? How can you possibly..."

"It was _horrible_ , Master," the Doctor whispers, so violently earnest that the Master stays still long enough to listen. "Imagine what it was like watching Rose die the first time. I watched her die eleven times. _Eleven_ , before I stopped trying. And I don't mean the kind that comes with regeneration. _Eleven times_."

The Master isn't entirely sure what the Doctor means. All he knows is that he very, very much doesn't like it. "What are you talking about, Doctor?"

The Master releases his hold, and the Doctor slumps down the wall, more controlled than a collapse but very far from graceful, to sit nursing his new cuts and bruises. "There are fixed points in space and time," says the Doctor, soft and pained, "and it seems that even paradoxes can't always stop the universe from righting itself."

The Master sits too, cross-legged, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. "That's what paradoxes do, Doctor. Change what's fixed."

The Doctor shakes his head. "No. They can permanently change what is, but not what _must_ be, not forever. Or that's what paradox _machines_ do, anyhow. Maybe it's a misnomer."

"What are you saying, then?" sneers the Master. "That the great hero of the universe couldn't even manage to..."

"I went back," interrupts the Doctor. "I whipped up a paradox machine, after you fell asleep on the night we finished the Device, and I went back. An easy rescue, I thought—just get her clear of the flames. And I did, Master. There she was, alive and well, the day after the explosion, and it was..." The Doctor shakes his head. "It was brilliant, Master. It felt...it felt perfect. This time, I thought, everything would be incredible. Everything would be right.

"That first time, the universe was gentle about it. It gave her a century. A whole century I stayed in that first paradox, watching our other selves, watching Susan grow up and Rose mature. Our other selves were finally granted the authority to use our TARDIS, and sometimes we went traveling together. And you were shaken up enough by the accident, and sensible enough in your second body, that you agreed a slightly more conventional method of achieving fame and power might not be _so_ bad. You'd been made a Cardinal, by the end of those hundred years." The Doctor smiles, proud and sad. "Rose had an extra century. And then there was an accident, a different, simple, everyday accident, the sort of million-to-one chance that could happen to anybody and just happened to her. A collapsed building, a pair of structural columns through her hearts. Nothing anybody could have predicted; nothing anybody could have prevented. But the whole point of the paradox had been to give Rose a long and happy life. It didn't seem to make sense, for me to stay there. So I took apart the paradox, went back to our timestream, and started over.

"The next time, she got seventy years. It was a little worse, that time. A homicidal madman in the Citadel. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The mercy of it was that she died quickly. But there was so much blood, Master. There was so much blood." The Doctor stops, staring down at his hands. He swallows, and looks back up at the Master.

"Go on." The Master has to know. He doesn't think he's going to like this, but he has to know.

"The third time, the Sontarans invaded early. I couldn't stop them fast enough. I'd have managed it in the end, but not before they started executing government officials, beginning with her office. So the forth time, I had a little chat with our younger selves, just after that first rescue, and told them I thought they'd better get Rose and Susan off Gallifrey. Forty years later, through a series of ridiculous coincidences, the four of them ended up on Skaro. I've seen far more exterminations in my life than I'd care to think of, but those four were the hardest.

"It just went on like that. No matter what I did, something always came for her. The seventh time was awful. That time, our other selves fell apart, just like we did, and became enemies, just like we did, and Rose got caught in the crossfire, and it was so very, very much _our fault_." The Doctor shudders, wraps his arms around himself. "But the eighth time, I thought I'd beaten it. The time between the explosion and Rose's death had been getting shorter and shorter with every attempt, but I made it to fifty years, then, without a whisper. And then the Time War came, even though I'd done everything I could to prevent it, and you can guess which young Time Lady was among the first casualties.

"After that, I was trying to fight _two_ fixed events—the War, and Rose's death. There was always going to be a Time War, and Rose was always going to die young, and after four hundred relative years of fighting paradoxes, I was beginning to know that. But I wasn't going to just give up, Master. It was Rose's life. I didn't think there was anything that could make me just give up. The tenth time, I watched the Daleks use the Cruciform to tear our daughter to pieces before my eyes, and still I was determined. I was _going_ to save her. I had the power, and the obligation.

“But the last time...” The Doctor's voice falters. The Master looks up to find him wearing a look that he has never, never seen before, a look that all the horrors of the universe have never brought to the Doctor's face in the past. When the Doctor continues, his voice is a dead thing, reciting more than telling.

"The last time, the War came almost instantly. It was only seven years before the universe went wrong. I have no idea how it was even possible for the Daleks to arm themselves so quickly, even with the power to travel through time, but...” The Doctor realizes that he is wandering, swallows, returns his face to his emotionless mask.

“They killed our other selves early, but I managed to save Susan and Rose. You don't know how much I regret that.” The Master stares openly at that. The Doctor doesn't respond to his look. He doesn't respond to anything, just keeps talking. “For three years, we ran. I carried the paradox with us, a part of the TARDIS, took us to further and further-flung corners of spacetime. But it didn't make any difference.

“They finally caught up to us on a little rock so desolate it didn't even have a name. We hadn't left the TARDIS in months, but by then they had long since devised the technology to open her doors. They sent three thousand Daleks, and several hundred Ogrons brought along to take care of odd jobs. The protections I'd designed killed all but a tenth of them. That wasn't nearly enough.

“The remaining force broke down the doors, cornered us, and led us from the TARDIS. They had orders to bring Rose and I back alive, if possible, but only once they were certain they had broken us. It was too dangerous to let us near any advanced technology, y'see, before they knew we'd not be any further danger. But they wanted our knowledge, mine in particular. And they knew just how to get it.

“The temporary prison they had built was as technically advanced as a medieval dungeon, but that was why it worked. No ingredients there to concoct some ingenious device, no dependence on technology that might easily be tricked or fail. Just simple brute strength.

“I guess you know something about the Ogrons? You were allies with them, once, as I recall. Not a sophisticated race. Not clever. But we couldn't have provided them with an easier method of torturing us if we'd designed the situation to their specifications. Rose and I weren't the only ones in the TARDIS that day, after all. We had a fifteen-year-old girl with us, who the Daleks considered entirely useless—except that she was the perfect weapon.”

The Doctor doesn't stop and doesn't falter. But his voice grows ever harder even as it begins to shake. “The Daleks had brought along Ogrons for a very specific purpose. There are some things you simply can't do to a young girl if you haven't got a humanoid physiology.” The Master is shaking now, too. The Doctor's breath comes in odd little gasps, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively on his elbows, but he cannot seem to stop talking. “They only beat her, at first. It was enough to start us feeding them information. In exchange for the basic medical supplies to set Susan's broken bones, I gave them the co-ordinates of what they believed was a virtually unguarded cache of ultra-high-tech weaponry. In reality, it led them into an expertly concealed ambush which ought to have resulted in a party of Time Lords being sent to our rescue.

“I don't suppose I need to tell you that the rescue I had anticipated never came. The Daleks had spies inside the Citadel who tipped them off. And when they found out I had lied to them...” The Doctor closes his eyes.

“Stop,” the Master whispers. “I don't want to hear.”

The Doctor goes on as though the Master hadn't spoken, his breath still stuttering out in ragged bursts. “They had all of us in one big room. Nine Ogrons and the three of us, dozens of Daleks looking down on us from an observation deck above. Rose and I on either side, Susan on display in the center. The walls were white and the floor was white. I don't know if they wanted it that way to make the colors show up better. It worked, though. What was left of Susan's clothes, dark scraps against the floor, and little bright flecks of her blood, and the sickly no-shade of her vomit.”

“Stop,” the Master orders, hands clenched, lips white. The Doctor is rocking back and forth, but his voice only grows louder.

“Rose tried to stop them. The three holding her were so much stronger than she was, but there was only so much she could take. She got away from them somehow, and ran across the room, and tried to pull the others off of her daughter.” The Doctor's eyes are glazed. The Master realizes, the horror and nausea growing still worse, that the Doctor probably wants to stop as much as the Master wants him to, but is honestly unable to keep the words from coming out of his mouth. “Their claws are nearly as sharp as razors. They flayed the skin from Rose's body and left her dying of blood loss as she watched her daughter being raped.” The Doctor keeps going on. He keeps going on, he keeps going on, why won't he _stop_? “When Rose regenerated, the first thing her new ears heard was the sound of Susan's screaming. It was no surprise the regeneration went wrong. It drove her mad in an instant. It drove her completely into their control.”

Oh God. Oh God. The Master had thought surely the Doctor had got past the worst of it now, and realizes he'd only just begun. The Doctor is sobbing, and still the words keep coming. “The first time they made Rose kill Susan...”

“Stop!” It's too much. It's so far beyond too much. The Master shoves his hand over the Doctor's mouth, forcing the nightmare back into him. His free hand grips the Doctor's arm, painfully hard, and he shakes him, the Doctor's body flopping as helplessly as a ragdoll. “Stop it, stop it, stop, stop, _stop_!”

And then the Master realizes that he is crying, the tears flowing thick and fast, and so is the Doctor, and without him knowing how their arms are around each other, a tight, living knot of mutual grief. The Master is furious, but he hasn't got time to be ashamed. It hurts too much already, without letting pride come in to make everything worse. They cry for a long time, wet and messy and undignified together, and by the end of it the Master knows that they are crying for other pains than these, older and newer agonies, all the wrongs the universe has done them and all the wrongs they have done each other. They cry until they are cried out and exhausted, tangled together in a ball on the floor.

For a long while, they don't say anything, only look at each other's blotchy, tear-stained faces.

"All right, get on with it, then," the Master grumbles, finally, looking away.

"Are you sure you want..."

"Would I tell you to, otherwise?" The Master knows this story has to have an end. Anything he could imagine would inevitably be worse than the truth. Or just as bad, at any rate. Better to know.

"But are you _sure_..."

"Doctor," says the Master, "shut up and get on with it."

"I can't very well do _both_ , can I?"

The Master only glares. The Doctor smiles a little, strange and incongruous with his eyes still bright with tears. Then he nods, and lets the smile slip away.

When the Doctor resumes his tale, he's lost that cold, unfeeling voice. He sounds like himself again, only rather more snuffly. “It was less than two days before the Daleks took it into their metal heads to destroy the TARDIS. Of course, that also destroyed the paradox machine, which unraveled the paradox and sent me back to our time. But you can see...you can see why I couldn't go back and try again. Not after that. And why I hated the Daleks enough, after, that the idea of genocide didn't seem so bad, somehow. I...wasn't very keen on living, right then. And I wanted to bring them down with me. That was all. I wouldn't have stopped to think of anything else, if it weren't for you."

The Doctor gives the Master one of his soppiest longing looks. The Master wonders, briefly, where the hell those have been the past twelve-hundred years, and thinks maybe the Doctor's been saving them up for this body. Best not to commit to anything too soon, the Master decides. He keeps his own features impassive as the Doctor goes on.

“I wanted so much to wake you, to be able to say goodbye. I wanted you with me while it was happening. It's funny,” the Doctor smiles sadly, “but, well, I suppose it makes sense that I couldn't have convinced you to destroy the universe with me, when you never could persuade me to rule it with you.”

“Not that funny, actually,” the Master points out. He doesn't bother to mention that he _would_ have stood by the Doctor's side while he tore their universe to shreds. He had loved the Doctor enough in that moment to have sacrificed the past for the future, to have accepted a share in the guilt that weighs so heavily on the Doctor now. _Naïve fool_ , the Master thinks.

“No,” says the Doctor, distant. “No, I suppose not.” They are still stretched out together, wrapped in what is nearer an embrace than anything else. “As it was, I knew you'd be set on trying the paradox again, and I couldn't let that happen. I just couldn't, Master. So I programmed your TARDIS to send you as far away as I could, hoping that it might get you clear of the destruction, and I rewired the energy source into a bomb so powerful it tore the Seven Systems out of time entirely, Skaro and Gallifrey both. If I'd have made it any weaker, it wouldn't have worked; it was both planets or neither. I still don't know how I survived.”

“That's because you don't think,” says the Master, smug and annoyed and too weary to be either properly. “When you ripped Gallifrey out of the timeline, you destroyed the history of the Time Lord race. But you're not _only_ a Time Lord. I survived because at the moment of the blast, I was a human. You survived because you're _always_ human. Or half, anyway. You're a part of their timeline, too.”

The Doctor's eyes widen. Has he honestly never considered this before? If the Master didn't know that the Doctor was a genius, there are moments he'd think he didn't have two brain cells to rub together. “I suppose that could be possible,” the Doctor admits.

“It's more than possible. It's the only logical explanation.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "At any rate, the residual energy of the blast itself was more than enough to kill that body, even through the TARDIS's shields. And when I woke up and couldn't feel you, any more than I could feel anyone else, I thought..." the Doctor swallows. "I thought my precautions hadn't worked. That you'd been killed with the rest of our people."

"They didn't, and I would have been, if I hadn't had the sense to use my chameleon arch." There is nothing more to say, now. Not really. On the other hand, absolutely everything remains unsaid. And unless one of them speaks soon, they'll have no excuse to keep on touching each other, which is a highly undesirable outcome.

"Doctor," says the Master slowly. He stops, gathers his strength, and then says it, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I wouldn't have built the paradox."

"What?"

"Not at the end of the War. For all the centuries that I was working on the Device on my own—that was what I planned on doing with it then. But not once the Device was actually finished. I'd accepted how things were. I had you back. It was enough."

The Doctor stares at him. "But you..."

"After the War, before this lovely little scheme," the Master interrupts, gesticulating at the air carrier around them, "I tried then. Because you weren't there, and I was furious with you. Only it couldn't work, of course, because no Gallifrey, no younger selves, no Rose. But I wouldn't have done it when you did."

The Master can't tell whether the Doctor believes him for his own sake, or just because it's a lie the Master would have no reason to tell. But he does believe, and he's horrified. "You mean it," the Doctor whispers, sitting up suddenly. "You wouldn't have. I...you really wouldn't. Master, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I really am."

"Be specific, Doctor," says the Master, harshly, sitting too. "You've got too much to be sorry about."

The Doctor swallows, nods, and begins to speak, very quickly. "I'm sorry I didn't find you as soon as I got back to Earth, this time. I'm sorry I couldn't believe it was you when we met on Malcassairo. I'm sorry I built an imitation of our daughter. I'm sorry I tore our planet out of time; it seemed like the only thing left to do. I'm sorry I sent you away in your TARDIS, and I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye first. I'm sorry I didn't trust you not to double-cross me and go build the paradox yourself. I'm sorry for building that paradox at all, and I'm doubly sorry for building it without you. I'm sorry I didn't forgive you, when you asked me to. I'm sorry I didn't jump at the chance of a new body for you when Romana offered it; I was afraid you would leave. I'm sorry I let you fall into the Eye of Harmony, and I'm sorry I didn't fish you out sooner. I'm sorry I didn't rescue you from the Daleks. I'm sorry I left you to deal with the Valeyard alone. I'm very, very sorry I let you burn alive, and I've died to prove as much. I'm sorry I didn't stay, when we had that understanding in my fifth body. I'm sorry I didn't believe that you were trying to help all five of me in the Death Zone. I'm sorry I stood by and watched you be shut in what I thought was an iron maiden. I'm sorry I let you be trapped on Xeriphas. I'm sorry I left you in Castrovalva. I'm sorry I didn't try to help you, when your thirteenth body was falling apart. I'm sorry I made you beg for your life, when we were captives of the Chronovore. I'm sorry I was terrified on our five-hundredth anniversary, and said something stupid to avoid admitting how much I still loved you. I'm not sorry for letting you be captured by UNIT, because that was rather a plus, all things considered, but I am sorry I didn't visit more often. I'm sorry I offered to travel with you, and then took it back. I'm sorry I didn't welcome you with open arms the moment you arrived on Earth during my exile. I'm sorry I couldn't stop the War Lords killing you during _your_ exile. I'm sorry I didn't seek you out long before that. I'm sorry for stranding Susan on Earth, and leaving you to clean up the mess. I'm sorry I left Gallifrey without you. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye that time, either. And I'm so, so sorry I ever blamed you for Rose, Master. I'm sorry more than anything for that."

The sheer scope of it is enough to stop the Master in his tracks for a moment. But only for a moment. "Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Enough? It's _too_ much," says the Master, "and I don't forgive you."

The Doctor's look is so stabbed-in-the-gut that the Master has no idea whether triumph or pity is the right response, or even which he's actually feeling. Pity is strictly-speaking less satisfying, true, but he's been on the other end of it so many times with the Doctor that there's a certain perverse joy in being merciful, in a limited sort of way. "Oh, I'll forgive you the little things, sure. All those times you almost let me die—all those times you _did_ let me die—well, what's a regeneration or two between friends, hmmm?" The Master waves his hand, a surprisingly elegant gesture that suits this feline body. "But the only reason you trust me enough even to have this conversation is that you're desperate to be pardoned for Gallifrey. I don't forgive you for destroying our planet. I don't forgive you for not trusting me. And I _definitely_ don't forgive you for lashing out at me during the worst time of either of our lives, and then going and _leaving_."

The Doctor flinches, cringes, and then nods miserably. And suddenly the Master is annoyed beyond expressing, and angry, and very, very tired.

"Stop that!"

The Doctor blinks up at him. "What?"

"Stop that! Stop just...just _taking_ it! Fight back, why don't you! You've always fought back. What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Master," says the Doctor, "did you really think you were the only one of us who went mad in the War? I've just been telling you. I'm not the same man I was. I never will be again."

"That's not good enough!" The Master slams his fist down on the ground beside him. "You _fight_ me. It's what you do. It's who we are!"

"Yeah?" asks the Doctor.

"Yeah," says the Master, looking at the Doctor like he really _has_ gone mad.

"All right," says the Doctor. "Then I suppose you can't blame me for _this_."

The Doctor's so fast about it that the Master doesn't even have time to scream. Before he can do anything at all, the Doctor has forced his way inside the Master's mind and yanked away his motor control, so the Master can't fight him, or call for help. His attack on the Master's mental defenses is similarly fierce and sudden. The only power the Doctor has left him, the Master realizes, is the ability to communicate telepathically—which he proceeds to do, _loudly_.

 _Doctor! What the_ fuck _did you just do?_

 _I'm sorry for this, too, Master, but I can help with the drums, I swear to you I can, and you'd never have just let me. I promise, I'm not going to do a single thing, only show you how to fix yourself, and I'll give you back your body just as soon as I'm finished. You can strangle me then, if you still want to._

 _Get out of my head, Doctor! You have no right to be here._

 _I know that,_ replies the Doctor, calmly, _but, like you said, fighting is what we do. Consider this an act of aggression, if you must, or an act of affection, if you can, but either way, I'm doing this, so you'd better pay attention._

 _Doctor!_ the Master screeches.

Listen _, Master,_ the Doctor insists. _I used my chameleon arch once, did you know that? And when I got back into my own body, my heartsbeats were loud, very_ very _loud, and I was tangled up enough about identity and memory and time that I wasn't sure whether or not they'd always been that way. But I hadn't been a human for nearly so long as you were, and I had Martha with me, and my own TARDIS, to remind me who I'd been. You didn't have any of those things. I knew very early that the pounding in my head wasn't meant to be there, and it wasn't crippling enough to stop me figuring out how to fix it. Now are you interested in what I have to say?_

 _No,_ lies the Master. _Get_ out _, Doctor._

 _In simplest terms, the part of your brain that processes auditory input has its settings up too high for very nearby sounds on very specific frequencies. It's an easy fix, but it's not the sort of thing they taught at the Academy. They always expected our bodies to work perfectly from the moment we were de-loomed to the day we dropped, d'you remember? We weren't even taught any way of shielding against it, because it's coming from inside our own minds, and actually it's our senses doing what they were meant to do, just too much so. If I were still teaching at the Academy, I'm sure I'd write a very dry paper on the subject, and be the talk of the cocktail party set for a horrifically boring week._ The Doctor smiles, and the Master, reluctantly, smiles back, because the old fogies of their homeworld _do_ make for good mocking.

 _Look, like this,_ says the Doctor, projecting an image of the Master's own mindscape at him. The Master can still see the world through his physical eyes, even as he 'sees' this representation of his mind through his telepathic channels. It's no more difficult than smelling and feeling at once, a simple simultaneous utilization of two different senses. _Here in the ventral medial geniculate nucleus. See this little bundle here? If you just sort of twist it to the left, and then kind of wriggle a bit...All right, yes, I know it sounds mad, but...this'll be much easier if you just let me do it for you, Master. But I won't, not without your permission. Tell me I can, and I'll turn off the pounding, but I won't force changes in your brain._

 _Not a chance, Doctor. Why would I possibly trust you?_ the Master sneers.

 _Because, you idiot, if I wanted to hurt you I could have done it already! How precisely do you propose to fight back, right this second? Master, I got lucky, when it was me. Poking around in my own brain—I could easily have done serious damage. But now I've done this once already. Please let me help you, Master._

 _Are you simply unaware of the meaning of the word 'no,' Doctor? Let me go!_

 _You do want the drums out of your head, don't you?_ asks the Doctor, concerned.

The Master rolls his eyes—or the ones on his psychic projection, anyhow, as his physical self is still paralyzed. _No, Doctor, I_ love _the pounding in my head. I'm_ thrilled _by the constant headaches. I can't_ wait _to wake up to that same goddamn rhythm morning after morning after morning. Yes, I want to turn off the fucking drums. I just don't want_ you _to turn them off._

 _But I..._

 _Have a completely insatiable hero complex! Why won't you listen to me? I don't need your help. I am capable of doing this myself. Respect me enough to let me make my own decisions, Doctor, and trust me enough to believe that I'll manage it perfectly well on my own. Do you think you could possibly set aside your own need to be the man who fixes people, just this once, and admit that sometimes people are capable of fixing themselves?_

That silences the Doctor. _All right_ , he says softly, and in an instant the Master has his control back, over his body and his mind. _May I stay here and watch? Just in case something goes very wrong, and you need my help. I won't interfere unless you ask._

 _If you must,_ The Master can't say he minds having the Doctor in his head. He never has minded. Very much the opposite, in fact.

The Doctor is right. Fiddling his own internal volume controls is more complicated than it sounds like it should be. There's a moment when every single sound is so loud the Master screams with pain, and that makes it so much _worse_ that he honestly thinks he's going to die. He reacts from sheer instinct, and then he's entirely deaf except for the very drumming he's trying to shut up. Finding the proper balance, positioning each and every bundle and fold of neural tissue just so to leave every sound just the way it should be, is a little like building a house of cards on a crooked table in the dark. But then the Master prods just the right spot, and suddenly his head is quiet. His hearts beat on in his chest, but not in his skull. He fine-tunes just a bit more, optimizing and tweaking. Then he nods at the Doctor, and they both slide out of his mindscape, fully within the world again.

It is quiet. It's quiet for the first time in years.

The Master is surprised to find, looking around him, that the sun has set outside the Valiant's windows. He's been in his mind longer than he thought he had. Everything about this day has been long. He stands, shakily, and the Doctor rises with him, presses a hand to his chest to steady him. They look at each other, just taking each other in for a little while.

"Come on," the Master decides, and takes the Doctor's hand, pulling him towards his own quarters. The Master tugs the Doctor along to his bedroom, a large, elegant room decorated in cream and grey. The Doctor makes straight for the bed, shedding his robe. The Master shucks his suit, climbs in beside him, and turns out the light.

They don't kiss each other goodnight. Neither of them makes a move to start anything. But they curl up facing each other, heads close on the pillow, arms around each other's waists. And they sleep that way, naked as loomlings, and innocent as the pair of boys they once were together, and as only so much blood and pain and guilt as they have known could ever have made them again.

 

*

When the Master opens his eyes the next morning, after the most blessedly drum-free night's sleep he can possibly imagine, the Doctor is already awake and looking at him. They're still curled up on their sides, faces only inches apart, each with his arms under his own head, in perfect symmetry.

"Hi," the Doctor says.

It should sound stupid. But the way the Doctor says it, it seems like the only logical thing to say, so the Master says "hi" back, and leaves it at that.

They just stare at each other for a long while, only the occasional dip and rise of eyelashes interrupting the stillness. The Doctor's eyelids, the Master notes, seem decidedly lazier than his own. They open less with each blink, until his eyes are practically closed. The Master is too busy observing this strange phenomenon to notice that the Doctor's face has been drifting nearer, bit by tiny bit, until their lips are practically pressed together.

"Oh, no!" the Master announces, far too loud, as he flings himself backwards across the bed. "No, no, not a bloody chance, Doctor. _No_."

"No?" The Doctor sounds absurdly confused.

"What, did you not hear me? Didn't I say it enough times? Was I not loud enough?" The Master cups his hands around his mouth and shouts into the Doctor's ear, " _No_ , Doctor. None of that. _That_ is where we always get ourselves into trouble. No, that's not true. _That_ is where _I_ always get myself into trouble, whereas _you_ just waltz merrily away. For how bollocks you are at actual waltzing, you're very good at that kind. The kind that ends with me, alone, cursing your name and swearing I'm going to get you back, or kill you, or both. I'm so sick of _that_ I can't possibly tell you."

The Doctor is practically doe-eyed with shock. "But Master..."

"I know you're not used to this," the Master continues. "I know my usual role is to welcome you back with open arms, forgive you all your sins, and throw a good hard fuck into the bargain. I've rewarded your bad behavior all these centuries, Doctor, and I'll take the blame for that. But it stops now, because the thing of it is, you don't actually want me. You think you do, but you really don't. You always decide, in the end, that you don't really want me. You _want_ to want me, and for a very long time I wanted you to want me, and that made for a very pretty mess. But you don't actually want me. And I'm too old to keep pretending that you do."

"You're wrong, Master," the Doctor says, intense. "I've always wanted you, every single day. I've been too much of a coward to want the complications that come along with you, sometimes, the memories and the pain and the work that it takes, being in love. But I've always wanted you."

"You think so, right this second," says the Master, "but you're wrong. Tell me, Doctor, if you could go back to the way we were on Gallifrey—that little world, that domesticity, after all we've done and seen—would you? Leaving Rose and Susan out of the picture; if you could go back to the white picket fence, and being proper husbands again, would you really?"

It's a question the Doctor's not ready to answer. The Master knows it, but that's why he asks it. "No," says the Doctor, finally, in a tone that implies he's shocked to hear the word coming out of his mouth. "No, I wouldn't."

The Master nods, and begins to roll away. The Doctor catches his wrist. "But I _would_ go back to just before the War, when we were traveling together. I loved those days, Master."

"Those days," says the Master, "you owned me. I was something you _built_. You can be spectacularly blind sometimes, Doctor, but you're intelligent enough to see how that scenario might possibly appeal more to you than to me."

"Oh, so what?" asks the Doctor, throwing up his hands. "You could have escaped, if that was what you actually wanted. I left you at least sixteen ways. You were never trapped, Master. I only gave you enough of a pretense that you could blame me for staying exactly where you wanted to be."

"Yes! Yes, I _was_ exactly where I wanted to be. Whose fault was it I didn't stay there, Doctor? We'd pieced together something practically sane together, during the War, and after all that, you'd rather have seen me dead than trust me! That was our last chance, at the end of the Time War, before the universe broke and we broke with it, and _you_ threw it away. Don't you _dare_ blame me for that. You could have trusted me, taken me with you into the paradox, and you didn't. When we were young you left me to mourn alone, and when we got old you left me to die alone. In what universe would it be a good idea for me to give you a third chance?"

The wheels in the Doctor's head are spinning out of control. The Master can almost watch them at it. "Our last chance," the Doctor whispers. "Yeah, maybe it was. But last implies ones before. And..." He loses himself in thought for a moment. Then he looks up at the Master. "If you won't give me a third chance, will you give me a second second?"

The Master raises an eyebrow. "Do you really think being cryptic and illogical is the way to win this, Doctor?"

"I don't mean _me_ ," says the Doctor, even more confusingly. "Not _this_ me. Not now." The Doctor looks square at the Master, completely serious.

"I think, Master," the Doctor says, "that you and I should build ourselves a paradox."


	13. Chapter 13

"I...what?" asks the Master, intelligently.

"I think," the Doctor repeats, "that we should build ourselves a paradox."

"Permit me to point out, Doctor," the Master remarks, as scathingly as he can manage given the fact that they're both naked in his bed, "that we've both had _such_ good luck with paradoxes in the past. I mean, given our track records, it's _inevitable_ that you'd suggest one, but..."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," the Doctor shoots back, irritable. "Will you listen to me for three seconds?"

"Would you like me to time it?"

"Have you got a watch hidden somewhere unmentionable?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know." The Master waggles his eyebrows. "Not that I'd need it. I am a _Time_ Lord, you know."

"You said that the Time War was our last chance," says the Doctor, forcing the conversation back on track. "And, yeah, all right, maybe it was. And yes, paradox machines, it seems, have trouble with fixed events. But here's the thing, Master: I don't think us, being like this, the way we are now—I don't think that can be something fixed. We had so many chances, Master. There were so _many_ times we could have put things right."

"And whose fault was it we didn't, Doctor?"

"Both of ours," says the Doctor, remorselessly. "Yes, I flew off and left you on Gallifrey, and yes, that was wrong. But I'd have found it so much easier to come back if you hadn't taken up murder and conquest as hobbies in the meanwhile. Do you know how nearly I _did_ come back, in my fifth body?"

"I remember _that_ only too clearly. I have to say, I think it's pretty damn ballsy of you to bring it up. You didn't win yourself any points with that little stunt, Doctor. Throwing yourself at me and then running the moment it began to look real—not your finest hour, I thought."

"I wanted you," the Doctor pleads. "God, Master, I wanted you so _badly_ when I was in that body. But you had to make it everything, all at once. You couldn't have eased me into it, just a little? Let the past sort of...creep in, bit by bit? I was finally learning to deal with the idea of Rose's death—finally, all those years later. I'd have got there, in a little while. That self was the only one I ever had who was both soft enough and strong enough to cope. I know the rest of the world would think I was crazy saying so, but my fifth self was one of the strongest I ever had. When I came to you in that body, it wasn't weakness, Master. If you'd have just made it a _little_ easier, I would have stayed."

"Oh, yes, obviously. It's all my fault, because I wouldn't lie to you about how I felt, or pretend we'd never meant anything to each other."

"That isn't what I...none of this is the _point_ , Master."

"Fine, Doctor. I'll bite. What is the point?"

"We couldn't save Rose," says the Doctor. "Of all the things you and I have accomplished, we couldn't do that. And you and I, now...there's no unbreaking either of us. We'll never be right as men, neither of us. Not ever again."

"We'll never be right together, either." If they're going to be ruthlessly honest, the Master is going to get his word in. "You know that, Doctor. What we had is gone, and it isn't coming back."

The Doctor doesn't quite look at him. "Maybe," he says, quietly. "If there was anybody in the universe who could legalize a Gallifreyan divorce, Master, would we still be married? If you really think we're that hopeless—would you?"

The Master opens his mouth, and shuts it again. That doesn't help anything, but it doesn't hurt, either, so he considers doing it again, and decides against it. "It's irrelevant, Doctor," he says finally, in a would-be haughty voice. "Nobody _can_ make it legal. We're stuck."

"And it's irrelevant," says the Doctor, color creeping over his cheeks, "because...because even if you wanted it, I wouldn't consent. So...there's that."

That relentless blush has fully conquered the Doctor's face now, and seems to be stealing a march on the Master's as well. "Of course you wouldn't," the Master manages, trying to sound unconcerned. "You're so desperate to hold on to anything of Gallifrey. If you'd married a statue of Rassilon, you'd cling to it like a crab with a stick. You know, the ones that can't let go once they take hold." The Master only resorts to Earth metaphors when he's flustered. He hopes the Doctor doesn't know that.

"No," says the Doctor, still staring determinedly a few inches to the left of the Master's shoulder. "I wouldn't. The only thing I'm clinging to is you, Master."

The Master's face is just as red as the Doctor's, now, and he thinks that they're far, far too old to blush, and that, clearly, the universe doesn't give a damn. "Oh, bloody _hell_ ," he growls, flinging himself forward, and kissing the Doctor like he's naked in bed with the only man he'll ever love for the first time in far, far too long. Which, of course, is exactly the way of it, so clearly it's just the right sort of kiss.

The Doctor certainly seems to think so. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, something slightly manlier than a whimper but near enough to it that the Master makes a mental note to mock him for it later. He wraps his arms tight around the Master and throws himself into the kiss, and when they're absolutely forced to break for air, he whispers, "Master," against the Master's lips.

The sound of it snaps the Master back. "No!" he shouts, and starts back two feet in a single movement. It's fortunate that the Master favors very, very large beds, or else he'd have landed on the floor in a very un-masterly heap. "I vetoed the kissing, Doctor. No kissing, I said. The Saxon government maintains a strictly anti-kissing stance. It was one of my least popular campaign platforms, but I stuck to it as a matter of honor."

"You never seemed to object when it was Lucy," says the Doctor, more than a hint jealous. "And in this particular case, _you_ kissed _me_."

"And if you really loved me, you'd have stopped me, for my own good."

The Doctor's eyes go mushy, in a way that bodes no good at all. "I do..." He's cut off by the Master's hands, pressed firm over his lips.

"You were talking about a plan," says the Master. "I like plans, Doctor. A plan, with a paradox. Plans are better than kissing."

"You didn't used to think so," says the Doctor, sadly, once the Master has taken away his hands.

"Your tendency to betray me and break my hearts didn't used to be such a worrying trend," replies the Master, scathingly.

"And that's the plan," proclaims the Doctor, in a triumphant tone. "You'd have trusted one of the other me's, Master. One of the younger ones. Your younger selves would have trusted mine."

"They quite often did. It was always a mistake."

"I would dispute that. And certainly not _inherently_. Yes, we bollixed everything. I won't argue that, Master. You and I, we threw away every chance we had. But some pasts _can_ be rewritten. And we could certainly do our part to nudge the odds."

The Master is finally beginning to understand. "Doctor," he says, "you want us to build a paradox—completely rewrite history—just to give our younger selves a second chance for True Love? Reset the _whole universe_ for the sake of hearts and flowers and moonbeams?"

"I'm a Time Lord," says the Doctor, lips curling. "I have that right." Before the Master can come up with a suitable retort, the Doctor goes on. "We were both willing to rewrite time to see our daughter happy, Master. Why shouldn't we be willing to do it for each other?"

"You're serious."

"Completely serious," the Doctor replies. "I'm fairly certain the universe can only support one paradox at a time. At least, I don't think trying to run two simultaneously would be a very wise experiment. And if we are going to have one, do you really think that's a worse reason than 'to permit the last humans in the universe to fly about as severed heads in metal casings, murdering their own ancestors?'"

"Those are my Toclafane you're talking about, Doctor. My children."

"No," the Doctor says, his voice suddenly hard. "They aren't." The Master hasn't ever seen this Doctor look fierce before. He manages it surprisingly well, considering. "You had a child once, Master. So did I. And here's the thing of it: she'd _hate_ what we've become. Can you imagine how ashamed she'd be of the men we are now, of the things we've done in her name?" The Master goes pale under the force of it, knowing it's the truth. "Rose would want us to be happy, Master. If it can't be you and me, then another us. A pair who won't ever have to fight in the Time War, with no Gallifrey and no Skaro left, and might just get their chance at not having to face the other trials of life alone. Don't throw that possibility away out of petulance, Master. It's far too important for that."

The Master stares down at the bedclothes, his lips twisting. "I hate it when you're right," he mutters resentfully.

"I'll try to avoid it whenever possible," the Doctor teases.

The Master looks back up at him, considering carefully. "A paradox to make us happy, eh?" he muses. "Well. It might not be a _total_ disaster. And where you're concerned, that's about as much as I can hope for, isn't it?"

"I might easily say the same to you." The Doctor is smiling. They're sitting up in bed, still naked, and somehow very close again. The Doctor doesn't lunge, nor does he drift. He is quietly deliberate as he caresses a hand over the Master's cheek and pulls their mouths together in a direct, head-on kiss that mushes the tips of their noses out of joint. It's too gentle and perfect and _good_ for the Master to fight against, but he doesn't deepen it, either. He just accepts that press, and focuses on the facts that this Doctor tastes, nonsensically, of banana, and that, as always, his kiss makes the Master's insides boil in a way far more pleasant than it sounds.

The Doctor doesn't try to make the kiss more than it is, and the Master is grateful. The Doctor lets his lips drift away when the time is right, resting his forehead against the Master's, and just stays like that.

"What you said about your fifth self," says the Master, slowly. "That he was only just starting to cope. That I shouldn't have asked you to just immediately pick up where we left off."

"Yes?"

"Until yesterday, I hadn't had quiet in my own head for...about thirty years, I think? And I didn't even remember what you'd done to me until around two years ago. And I haven't had you right in front of me until two months ago. And we didn't actually start talking until about sixteen hours ago. And it cannot be denied that, just before all that happened, you'd figured out an awfully impressive way to forfeit my trust—and before _that_ , we'd just been through a pretty fucking horrible war, and wouldn't exactly have been at our best to begin with. Yes, we actually _talked_ yesterday about all the things we haven't mentioned in hundreds of years, and yes, you showed me how to fix the drums, and yes, we shared a bed without murdering each other or leaving each other alone, and yes, those things helped. But Doctor..."

"Yes?"

"Don't ask me to just immediately pick up where we left off. I'm not promising you anything, and I don't want to hear any promises of yours."

The Doctor's eyes glow with comprehension. He nods, as much as he can nod with his own head so close to the Master's. "All right."

"Good," says the Master, and then he and the Doctor are kissing each other again. This one is all the Master's doing. It isn't gentle, and it isn't tentative. The Doctor's head is pressed into the pillows, his back against the mattress, the Master straddling him with his knees on either side of the Doctor's stomach, before either of them really has time to process what's going on. The Master robs the Doctor of every last atom of air in his lungs, and then, suddenly, he rolls off the Doctor, off the bed entirely, and stands. "Come on, Doctor," says the Master, grinning his smuggest grin. "If you want us to build a whole new paradox, then we've got work to do."

*

The problem—as always, the Master thinks, rolling his eyes—is the humans.

The easiest plan would be simply to undo the Toclafane paradox, and then see about building the next one. Once that paradox is unraveled, the universe will be reset to the moment before the spheres appeared on Earth, the planet restored to its prosperity of two months ago. But there is at least one major problem with that scenario. Yes, the humans on Earth's surface wouldn't have any idea that any of it had happened. But the ones on the Valiant will remember, and they aren't likely to be happy about it all. It's not at all improbable, in fact, that they'd attempt to lynch the Master before the second paradox is put into place. They almost certainly wouldn't make it into the TARDIS, true, but there's no sense inviting a rebellion that can be avoided at the cost of only a few days of delay. And so the Doctor and the Master leave the Master's old paradox in place as long as they possibly can, while they work on designing the new one.

Ironically enough, even the humans who are causing them such inconvenience now will forget the months-that-never-were once that new paradox _is_ active, because the Doctor and the Master are aiming to rewrite huge swaths of their own personal timelines. They're going to reset the universe, essentially, to the way it was at an earlier moment in their own lives, which means they'll erase absolutely everything they've done since whatever time they choose—except the destruction of Gallifrey, which is irreversible.

As a matter of fact, the Master and the Doctor are going to _be_ the walking, talking paradoxes they're really trying to achieve. There is nothing paradoxical about the universe as it used to be; going back in time doesn't require the power of a paradox. But if they go back and change their own pasts, give their younger selves a pair of lives that their current incarnations never had, the present-day Doctor and Master will have real memories that never happened, be the products of a real past that never occurred. Or future that never will occur, if one wants to get technical about it. The Doctor would call it all timey-wimey, and the Master, while outwardly scoffing at the Doctor's habit of dumbing-down complex ideas for the benefit of his pets, supposes that's as good a way to put it as any.

Every point in the past has many possible futures associated with it. Only one of those futures can be actual, for a given universe. The current Master and Doctor are the product of one such possible future, but they plan to de-actualize the timeline that produced them, and nudge the universe in the direction of another. This Doctor and Master will remain, remnants of their own destroyed timeline, but so will the younger selves whose lives they hope to alter—two Doctors and two Masters in one universe at the same time. The only question they're still facing is what moment they ought to choose to begin that alteration of reality, how much of the past to undo.

The decision turns out to be surprisingly easy. "Why waste time?" the Doctor asks, and the Master agrees wholeheartedly. The thing to do, they both agree, is intercept the Master the moment he left Gallifrey for good, the day he became a Renegade, while he was in his fifth body.

"It's good timing on my part," the Master grants. "I was in shock. I'd had to TCE a guard on my way out of the Citadel. It was the first time I'd ever killed anyone. If you want a moment when I might be willing to sit down with the two of us and a younger you and have some sense talked into me, that'd be a good one."

"And I was in my second body, then," says the Doctor. "Just before I met Jamie. It was...Ben and Polly traveling with me, then, and as companions go we were never very close. All they ever wanted was to go home. We wouldn't have nearly such a hard time getting me alone as usual."

The Master makes a noise of approval, and the Doctor cocks his head on one side. "Would they suit each other, do you think?" he asks, in a contemplative tone.

"What?"

"Your fifth self and my second. I never met him. Yours, that is. Met myself, of course. I always rather liked that one."

"I barely had a chance to get to know him," the Master admits. "Mine. Well, either of them. I had a terrible habit last regenerative cycle of losing bodies almost before I'd got them. That one was killed by...Sontarans? No, that was the one after. Ah, yes—Monans. Poisoned by Monans. I might have had that self all of a week. I think I liked him, though. Much saner than this one, of course. A little on the somber side," the Master pulls a face, "but would have developed a sense of humor, given time. He had eyes that looked like they wanted to glint. And he was ginger, of course."

The Doctor stops dead, glaring at the Master, who knows full well what the Doctor's opinions on the subject will be and is having trouble concealing his grin. "Oh, now, that's just not _fair_ ," the Doctor sulks. "Why do you get to have all the fun?"

"Did I mention the 'poisoned by Monans' part?"

"But my point was, will they suit each other? Will they get along? If we're going to this much trouble for a bit of matchmaking, we ought to make the right match."

"They're us," says the Master. "If it's the right match more days of the week than it's the wrong one, they'll get along fine."

The Doctor grins, suddenly, the bright, irrepressible, full-face grin of this regeneration. "Fair enough."

They've been working on their new paradox machine for two weeks now. This one is much more difficult than the last, the Toclafane paradox that the Master built alone—not inherently, but because their access to so many parts of the TARDIS is limited while that other paradox is still active. Still, with the both of them working, it oughtn't to be more than another day before they're ready to make the switch between paradoxes, as quickly as possible, and head into their pasts.

Every night of these past weeks, the Doctor and the Master have shared the Master's bed. Every morning, one or the other of them has woken up already being kissed, and those morning interludes have grown longer, more involved, more intense with every passing day. But every morning, they stop short of the logical conclusion of hot-and-heavy naked makeout sessions, and every morning, it is the Master who stops them. They still haven't fucked in these bodies. Not yet.

The Master has every intention, someday, of pounding into this babbling version of the Doctor—silence, it turns out, is not his natural setting at _all_ —so hard that his interminable monologues turn to nonsense syllables, and his nonsense syllables turn to screams of pure pleasure. But not yet. For many years their desire was a mutual, balanced force, and for many more years after that it was the Master chasing the Doctor. But the Master's not sure whether there's ever been a time before, in all of their very long lives, when the Doctor needed him more than he needed the Doctor. The Master is far too aware of the value of power to let go of that advantage easily. The Master can taste how much the Doctor wants him in every single kiss, and he's not at all certain that this, the knowledge that he has the Doctor's attention in the fullest possible sense, isn't even better than sex. Better or not, this anticipation is delicious in its way, and once the Master lets it go, it will be gone for good. So he plays hard-to-get, and thrills in the power that comes of being the one to say no, just this once.

And that's why the Master doesn't kiss that grin off of the Doctor's face, nor does he bury his head in the Doctor's lap and see what sorts of expressions that elastic mouth comes up with while the Doctor is being sucked off, nor does he shove the Doctor's trousers down around his ankles and ride him into next month. But he makes a mental note to do all of those things, twice each, as soon as the time is right, and, when the Doctor snakes an arm around the Master's waist, he lingers just a moment before pulling away and getting back to work.

*

"Well," says the Doctor, gazing with pride on their handiwork, "that's that, then."

"You have a remarkable talent for stating the obvious, Doctor."

"Shut up," says the Doctor affectionately. "How long d'you reckon, to disconnect the old one and reconnect the new?"

"Five minutes, and that's assuming very fumbly fingers. Do you think you can hold off your humans for that long?"

"It'll take twice that long for them to even figure out what precisely has just happened. Granted, your guards will probably come looking for you sooner, but they'll believe what you tell them for a few minutes, at least. It'll be long enough. Do we have to worry about the Toclafane? They'll be expecting you to open their passage to Earth at just about exactly the moment we're going back to."

The Master shakes his head. "Only four of them could ever transmat, and never inside the TARDIS. Closing the doors will be more than enough to keep them away."

"All right, then," says the Doctor. And then, gesturing grandly, wildly overdramatic, "Let's do this thing."

The Master raises his eyebrows, and the Doctor wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I'm never saying that again."

"I think that'd be wise," the Master affirms. "Would you care to do the honors?" he asks.

The Master wouldn't usually surrender the dramatic moment with so little fuss, even to the Doctor. But the Doctor has been so protective of his TARDIS all through this process that the Master knows he'll make a fight of it, and the Master can't say he entirely blames him. There was no need whatever for the Master to be nearly so rough with this machine while he was building the Toclafane paradox. It would have been perfectly possible to leave her as a functional time capsule even with the paradox engaged—as she is now, and will be once they activate their new paradox. The Master is more than willing to admit that he was taking out his anger with the Doctor on this machine that means so much to him, tearing up her deck plates and disassembling her central column and stripping her of her essential TARDIS-ness as a petty revenge. He's not ashamed of that; of all the ways the Master could have expressed his thoroughly justified ire, he thinks he chose rather a healthy one, all things considered. But all through these days of joint labor, the Doctor has focused on any task that directly involved his TARDIS, delegating all separate work on the new paradox to the Master, unwilling to let the Master lay a finger on his baby except when absolutely necessary. The Master can't say he appreciates that attitude, but he comprehends it, and it's a fight not worth having right now. If the Doctor's outlook doesn't change soon, the Master will have to be stern. For a little while, though, he can afford to indulge his Doctor.

" _Avec plaisir, Maître_." The Master hasn't the remotest idea why the Doctor says it in French. It takes him long moments of searching his memory to remember how he had accepted the Doctor's offer of their very first voyage together, back in the years before absolutely everything changed, the first time. Absolutely everything changes so often in their lives. The one thing that never changes is the fact that nothing ever stays the same.

But this is no time for dime-store philosophizing. The Doctor has just turned off the Toclafane paradox, and the reversal of time feels like it's pulling the Master's navel through his stomach, a deep, inside-ish feeling made of awareness and wrong. Changing timelines always make the Master seasick. He's glad that this one only has to undo two months. But before he knows it, they've wired in the new paradox, and he knows that this is going to be the same feeling, except so much worse. He and the Doctor are about to unravel something like a thousand years of their own timelines, even longer in the Doctor's case. Every single thing they have done in all that time will never have happened at all. The universe's memory of their many, many deeds since their very earliest days as time travelers will be reduced to dreamlike echoes of what they once achieved, and foreshock impressions of what they may yet accomplish for the second time. They are wiping the slate clean, but a slate once used will always retain some smudge of dust, some hint of afterimage. Within their own minds, and buried deep in the subconscious of the universe, their first try at living will retain a ghostly truth. But they are erasing the majority of their lives from reality in a very palpable sense, and that's terrifying in a way that has nothing to do with anticipation of an upset tummy.

"I wish I could say goodbye to them," says the Doctor, sadly.

"What?"

"My friends. My companions. They won't remember me. All except the earliest few."

"They'll still be there, after. You can see them again if you want to. Meet them for the first time again."

"Maybe," the Doctor grants. "But they won't remember me. It won't be the same. Besides, my companions, they...well, they _belong_ to the version of me they travel with. My fourth self and Leela got on like a house on fire, but my seventh wouldn't have been to her tastes. Jaime and my second self were inseparable, but he'd never have been comfortable with my fifth. My third self would have had no idea what to do with Nyssa—he'd have tried to handle her with kid gloves all the time, and she'd never have opened up to him. And Rose..." The Doctor stops himself suddenly and looks over at the Master, uncertain whether Rose Tyler is a subject he's allowed to broach or not.

"If you must, Doctor," the Master grants.

"Rose and my first self would have had no patience with each other. They had to meet me when they met me. I can't just...start over."

"But you can make certain they still do meet their proper Doctors at the proper times. You seem to be forgetting that there still will be a younger you, Doctor. He just won't have done everything you've done, yet. And he won't do _everything_ you've done, and he'll do things you haven't. But what good are we if we can't nudge our own younger copies towards the better things we've had in our lives, and steer them away from the bad?

"And it ought to be pointed out," the Master continues, growing suddenly more impassioned, "things don't get less important because they only exist in our memories, Doctor. The things we've done—they happened. Yes, we're creating a new past, but that doesn't mean the other one didn't matter. Don't imagine I say that with any pleasure. I spent a lot of years living as though what I was doing didn't count, just because I had every intention of undoing it again. But then there was Gallifrey." The Master stares hard at the Doctor. "Too much of our pasts have already vanished, Doctor. But they _happened_. Rose happened, and Susan happened. Borusa, and Salyavin, and Narvin, and Darkel, and the Rani, and Rassilon, and the Eye of Harmony, and the Matrix, and your friend the Lady President, and the Time War, and our species, and our city, and our planet: they were. They don't stop mattering because only your brain and mine hold any impression of them. And neither will the years we're about to unravel."

The Doctor just stares for a long moment after the Master finishes his speech, thoughtful and solemn. And then he smiles—still serious, but happy, too.

"You," he says, taking the Master's hand, "are disarmingly charming when you're being all serious and sane." He stops to consider, and then lilts, "Disarming and charming and rather alarming..."

"Alarming is much better. I'll have to find something to replace the drums with, if I'm going _sane_ without them." The Master makes an exaggeratedly disgusted face, but doesn't drop the Doctor's hand.

"Not _too_ sane," the Doctor reassures. "Besides, you'll have me around now. I'm enough to drive anyone nutters."

"Of all the men in the universe, Doctor, do you think there's anyone needs telling less than me?"

"Point," the Doctor grants.

There is a pounding on the door of the TARDIS, and the Master and the Doctor both jump. They've forgotten where—and, more importantly, when—they are. "Master, sir," calls the voice of one of the Master's human guards, "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but...but something just...well, sir, the Toclafane have almost all vanished, and..."

"Sounds like our exit," the Master comments.

"Right," agrees the Doctor. He looks like the Master feels—jittery, and nervous, and excited, and just a bit terrified. This won't do at all. They're about to affect possibly major alterations to the entire timeline of their universe. It's no good going into it like a pair of scared ninnies.

Fortunately, the Master knows just the way to set the proper mood. Dropping the Doctor's hand, he moves his own to the small of the Doctor's back, slides it downwards, and gives the Doctor's arse a nice, friendly, comforting sort of grope.

The Doctor's eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to look at the Master. "And what was that for?"

"Do I need a reason?" the Master smirks.

"I suppose not, although..."

"And do you have some kind of objection?"

"No, but..."

"Good." Spinning the Doctor around, the Master hoists him up so the Doctor is half-sitting on the console, only the tips of his toes on the floor. Then the Master slides himself between the Doctor's spread legs, grips the Doctor just above the knees, and leans in to kiss him, with open-mouthed enthusiasm. The Doctor's long, nimble fingers slide into the Master's hair in time with his tongue sliding against the Master's, and he makes a little noise that may be contentment and may be arousal and is most likely some of both. As unwilling as the Master is to stop running his hands along the firm curves of muscle hidden underneath those pinstripes, he reluctantly removes one of his hands from the Doctor's thigh and uses it to pull one of the Doctor's hands out of his hair. Then he moves their two hands, together, to the controls of their new paradox.

 _Here we go,_ murmurs the Master, psychically, so there's no need to give up on the kissing.

 _Allons y,_ agrees the Doctor, and, fingers twined with the Master's, pushes the lever that will send them to the past.

They neck like schoolboys as eleven hundred years dissolve around them, and into the Master's head, the Doctor whispers three words that he's been waiting to hear for hundreds of years, and avoiding for the past two months. _I forgive you, Master_ , thinks the Doctor, as the bitter years of their past crumble to dust, and, as much as the Master is inclined to think it's cheating, saying it now, like this, he can't imagine it could possibly have been any other way.

*

Just activating the paradox doesn't _look_ as though it changes anything at all, not from inside the TARDIS. Really, they _haven't_ changed anything just yet; it'll take finding their younger selves to really start making a difference. Finding the Master's younger self is their first priority, since the younger Master will hurtle straight into the midst of a good dose of mortal peril the moment he first steps from his TARDIS in his fifth body (or would, if they ever give him the chance). The younger Master's TARDIS is heading straight for the Monan homeworld, and the older Doctor and Master have to catch him before he gets there, a piece of piloting not so much impressive as frankly insane. Fortunately, the older Doctor and Master _are_ frankly insane, and between the two of them they have upwards of two thousand years of practice putting TARDISes through their paces. They manage a very neat materialization around the younger Master's TARDIS while it's still in the Vortex, and soon the fifth Master is cautiously opening his TARDIS door, and peeking his head into the Doctor's console room.

The Doctor has never met this Master before, and the older version is curious to see what his Doctor's reaction will be. This younger Master looks perhaps thirty-five or forty years old, by human standards. He has a thick head of dark auburn hair, his beard full this time but just as closely cropped as he usually wears it. His silver-grey three-piece suit is cut clean but somewhat long in the back of the coat, faintly Regency in design, and his waistcoat is of sensual silk richly patterned in black and emerald and rose. His tie sports an emerald tiepin of a size which a generous observer would say falls _just_ shy of vulgar.

"Good _lord_ , Master," says the Doctor, "were you planning on using that rock as back-up funds if you ever needed to buy a planet in a hurry, or is that actually meant to be a statement of fashion?"

"Sod off, Doctor," say both Masters, in unison. Then the younger Master looks from the Master to the Doctor and back again.

"I'm fairly certain I know who you are, more or less," he says, "but might I please inquire what the bloody hell is going on?"

"Aww, he _is_ you! Just listen to him! Bless his boots, the sweet little thing." The Doctor bounces over to straighten the fifth Master's tie, ruffle his hair, and, just to top it off, pinch his cheek. "And the beard! D'you know, I always hated the beard, but I think I miss it, now it's gone. Why did you get rid of the beard, Master? And he really _is_ ginger, just look at that! Red as red can be. I haven't had a redhead in the TARDIS for _ages_. It's decided: the next person who comes traveling with me must be ginger. Can he come traveling with us, Master? Pretty please? Can we keep him? Can I kiss him?"

It takes both Masters a moment to react, overwhelmed by the Doctor's babble, and then the younger Master's "yes" and the elder's "no" come in unison.

"Oh, all right then," the Doctor concedes, with a baleful glance at his own Master. The elder Master smirks triumphantly at his younger self, who glares back, as the Doctor ambles back towards his Master.

"Can't stop putting things in his mouth, this regeneration," the Master comments, just to rub it in, as his younger self's glare darkens. "You'd not _believe_ some of the things he can do with his tongue."

"That's quite enough, you," the Doctor cautions. "Don't go antagonizing him right off the bat, or we'll never get anything done."

"You're no fun," sighs the Master.

"Then let me take him off your hands," the other Master wheedles. "He does look ridiculous in that suit, but I'll bet he's awfully nice out of it."

"He is," replies the elder Master, "which is precisely why you _won't_ be getting your grubby paws on him." The Master wraps both his arms around the Doctor's waist in a gesture that means ' _mine_ ' in every culture in the universe.

"As flattering as all this is, Masters, I'd be greatly obliged if you'd both shut up," puts in the Doctor. "We _have_ got work to do."

"I second the motion," puts in the younger Master. "How are you here? More importantly, _why_ are you here?"

"So," says the elder Master, "you know that paradox machine you've been spending your every waking moment trying to build?" The Master gestures over his shoulder at the Doctor's console. "You're looking at it."

The younger Master's eyes widen, and his face lights up. "You finished it! We finished it! Rose, we can..."

The Master shakes his head, his eyes dark, and the other Master's brow wrinkles. "What do you mean? Why..."

"Master," says the Doctor, gently, "how many Time Lords can you feel in the universe right now?"

The younger Master stops. "What?"

"I know it's not something you usually think about—just background noise. But try to sense all the Time Lords you can. Telepathically. Just try."

The Master, clearly confused, closes his eyes. His eyebrows raise, and then raise again. "Nobody," he whispers. "Just the two of you, and...another...another Doctor?" He opens his eyes again. "What did you _do_?" he asks the both of them, clearly shaken.

"That's a bigger question than you could possibly know," says the Doctor, quietly. "And we'll answer it, very soon. But not until we've got my second self."

"Your second self? Which one are you, then?"

"Depends how you count," says the Doctor, airily. "Tenth, technically, though there _was_ the fellow with the frown and the coat."

"I've already met the version of you with the frown and the coat."

"Different frown, and different coat. Well, really, they've...all got coats. Some even more so than that one, actually. All right, forget the coat. He mostly had the frown. And this hair that sort of...swooped."

"Right. And you?" He turns to the Master.

" _Really_ depends how you count. Should I exclude the human and the Trakenite, or only the android and the snake?"

"Never mind," says the younger Master, quickly. "So the two of you are from the same timeline, then. And we're going to get the Doctor from mine."

"Very good," the Doctor throws over his shoulder as he dashes around his console, pumping levers and punching buttons and fiddling controls.

"But that still doesn't explain what you're..."

"Patience, young grasshopper," the Master says, putting his arm around his younger self. "While we're on our way to the second Doctor, there are some things you ought to know about future Doctor care and maintenance. The third one, for example, is a cocktease and serial sandwich-thief who spends far too much time with young women in short skirts, but he is into bondage and velvet, so that's something."

"Oy! I was _not_ a..."

"Oh yes you _were_ a cocktease."

"I was going to say, I was not a serial sandwich-thief. That was a one-time, special occasion event."

"Lies, Doctor, always lies! The nicest conversation I ever had with your Miss Grant was a mutual lamentation over your sandwich-thieving ways. We really bonded that day, I thought. Pretty soon we'd have been having sleepovers and braiding each other's hair."

"Miss Grant?" asks the younger Master.

"Ah, that's right! You know nothing of the Companions yet, do you?"

"Well, you're about to find out," says the Doctor. "Master, come help me with this. Materializing around TARDISes is one thing, and materializing inside them is another thing again. I'll probably kill us all," he finishes, cheerfully.

"And good riddance to bad rubbish," the Master replies, equally sanguine, bounding over to the console. "I don't mind dying so long as you go with me, Doctor. The universe can't do with only one of us at once."

"Yes, but we've got the other you with us, and not the other me. There _would_ be only one of us if this TARDIS went boom just now."

"Oh, I'm certain we'd manage to take the other you with us. Shall we try?"

"Maybe some other time, Master."

"You're still no fun."

"You're mad," the other Master whispers, staring at them both. "You're both stark, staring mad."

The older Master tsks. "And here I thought I was _intelligent_. It's taken you all this time to figure that out?"

"Be nice," warns the Doctor. He wraps his arm around the shoulder of the younger Master, who has wandered towards the console, and gives him a consoling look that soon turns wistful. "Master, are you _sure_ I can't kiss him?"

"Oh look, we're here," says the older Master, scowling at his Doctor and his other self. There is a thump as the Doctor's TARDIS lands inside what is, technically, itself.

"Brilliant!" beams the Doctor, and, grabbing a Master in each hand, he pulls them both down his TARDIS's ramp, and straight out the door.

"The white circles!" the Doctor gasps, dropping the Masters' hands as he emerges into the other console room. "Oh, I miss the white circles! And the boxy old console! And you!" The Doctor dashes over to the three figures, two young fair-haired humans and one Time Lord, who stand on the other side of the console, staring in complete shock. "Ben! Polly! Oh, it's so good to see you!" He seizes their hands in turn, shaking them enthusiastically. "Have we got the time right? You've just got through meeting the Daleks, yes? Fearsome beasties, aren't they? Or...oh, bugger. Will you have ever fought them, now Skaro never existed? I can't keep track."

"Excuse me," blusters the second Doctor, "but would you mind very much telling us what _precisely_ is going on? And what _they_ are doing here?" He gestures at the Masters on the other side of the room.

"And you!" cries the tenth Doctor, flinging his arms around his younger self. "I think I've missed you most of all, Scarecrow. I had so much fun being you."

"You'll have to forgive him," calls the older Master, from his position lounging against the door of the other Doctor's police box. "He gets like this."

The younger Master doesn't say anything. He just stares at the younger Doctor, hurt and hunger and fear all over his face. The younger Doctor keeps shooting him glances and then looking away. It's the first time they've seen each other since the worst night of the Master's life, and the older Master remembers how hard it was, meeting the Doctor again, even after twice as much time as this pair have had.

"Doctor?" says Polly, tentatively. "What's going on?"

"I'm not entirely certain myself, Polly, but I can at least assure you that we aren't in any danger," says the younger Doctor. "This man— _will_ you let go?—is...well, me."

"What?" asks Ben. "Doctor, how can he possibly be you?"

"That process of transformation that you watched me undergo—regeneration—is something I will do again many times in my life. This is one of my future selves. A version of me that I haven't been yet."

"Time, you see," says the older Doctor, enthusiastically, turning to Ben and Polly, "isn't a straight line. It's really more of a ball of wibbly..."

"Oh Rassilon, somebody stop him, quickly," mutters the older Master.

"The most important thing, from your perspective," says the Doctor to the humans, "is that I'm him. Except, unlike my younger self here, I actually know how to pilot my own TARDIS. Well...usually. I mean, _generally_ speaking. You're more than welcome to stay on, of course, with the Doctor you know or with me, but tell me, Polly, Ben—would you like to go home?"

Polly and Ben have been staring in confusion, but that much seems to fully penetrate their brains. "Home, Doctor?" Polly asks eagerly, and Ben adds, "D'you mean it?"

"If you like," says the older Doctor. "It's your decision."

Ben and Polly look at each other, then at the younger Doctor, then back at each other, and then at the older one. "Yes, please," Polly says. "We've seen wonderful things, Doctor," she continues, turning back to the younger Time Lord, "but...well..."

"We belong on Earth, the Duchess and me," Ben puts in.

"It's home," Polly finishes.

"If you need us here, Doctor..." Ben adds, but the second Doctor cuts him off.

"No, no, of course not. I will miss you both," he smiles, "but good heavens, what kind of friend would I be, to stand in your way? I'm not certain I trust _this_ fellow to get you there," he glances at the other Doctor, "but..."

"Oh, come off it, you," the older Doctor grins. "Who in the universe can you trust more than me?"

The second Doctor gives the fifth Master another of those tiny, split-second glances. "No one," he says, quietly, much more solemn than usual.

The younger Master goes red. "That's the next thing on the agenda," says the older Doctor, to his younger self, a bit sternly, "but a quick trip to Earth, first. Are you coming?"

"And leave _them_ alone in my TARDIS?" the second Doctor asks, glancing at the Masters. Then he sees Polly's imploring expression. "Well..."

"I've got the younger one's TARDIS inside mine. If you need a guarantee of their good behavior, you've got it," the tenth Doctor replies. Turning back to his own Master, he continues, "Meet us in the Cloister Room. Seems like the right sort of place for a serious discussion."

The Master can only endure the Doctor taking charge for so long at a stretch—if anyone is going to be the center of a crowd, it ought to be _him_ —and the younger Doctor's lack of trust is grating on him, annoyed on behalf of his own younger self. "Since when do I take orders from you, Doctor?"

The older Doctor knows him well enough to understand where this is coming from, and refrains from rolling his eyes. "I would appreciate it, Master, if you would please meet us in the Cloister Room."

"Better," says the Master, with a curt nod.

"'Master?'" asks Ben, incredulous. "Doctor, you've told us who this one is, in a manner of speaking," he says, nodding towards the elder Doctor, "but who are these two?"

The second Doctor shoves his hands in his pockets, cheeks reddening. "Never mind, Ben. He isn't..."

"Our husband," interrupts the older Doctor, firmly.

There is a moment of silence, and then everyone in the console room reacts at once. Ben's eyes bug. Polly's jaw drops. The fifth Master goes white. The second Doctor's eyes snap up, staring in shock at his other self. And the older Doctor's eyes find the older Master's, and they hold each other's gaze with perfect understanding, until the Doctor breaks the contact to grin down at his own trainers.

" _Husband_?" Ben splutters.

"Our society has long since evolved beyond your primitive taboos," sneers the elder Master. Then he stops. "Well. It _had_ , anyhow."

"We'll talk about it on the way," says the tenth Doctor, sensing that this is a discussion better conducted without either Master present. "Come along, everyone."

Nobody moves. The tenth Doctor sighs. "Come along," he repeats drawing out the last word, physically tugging Ben and Polly into his TARDIS. "July twentieth, 1966, wasn't it?" he asks the humans, as they're passing through the door.

The second Doctor stays still, his eyes focused on nothing at all. The fifth Master, staring hard at him, moves slowly across the console room, until he stands just beside the younger Doctor, and then reaches out his hand, and brushes it gently over his Doctor's.

The Doctor jumps. He finally looks full at his own Master, only a few inches away. They hold each other's eyes for a long moment, and then the Doctor turns away, and hurries into his own older self's TARDIS. It dematerializes the moment he shuts the doors.

 

The Master—the older Master—is no good at taking care of people. He was, once, but he seems to have lost the instinct somewhere, surrendered it for the sake of strength that he had needed every inch of to survive. He doesn't know how to console anybody, not really, not anymore. But he tries to sound gentle when he says, "Come on. They'll be popping back into the Cloister Room in a moment."

Obviously, it isn't gentle enough. His younger self looks up at him with a bitter eyes, his mouth compressed to a firm line. "Why did you come here?" he asks, his voice grating. "I had a life. Something to work for. None of...none of _this_ to think about."

"We'll be telling you any minute. Now come with me."

"I'm not just some kind of puppet, or a child! You had no _right_ to..."

The older Master has his younger self pinned up against the wall before he can say another word. "Listen, you ungrateful little shit," he hisses, "you have _no idea_ how much it's cost me to be here, and how much I'm going to save you from. You never _will_ have any idea—that's the whole bloody point. But look at me." He shakes himself, forcing his eyes up. " _Look at me!_ Am I what you want to be in a thousand years time, hmmm? Am I what you _aspire_ to? If I _wasn't_ here, I'm all you'd have to look forward to. Oh, you think it's _so hard_ , seeing him again, do you? You don't know what he's put me through since then. You can't even begin to guess. I'm trying to _spare_ you that, so you'd better smarten up, you get me? If you ever want that bloody happy ending that I know perfectly well you never stopped looking for, then pay very close attention, because I'm never going to have that, and you can. Now pick up your fucking feet, walk to the Cloister Room, and thank your lucky stars I'm here."

The older Master releases his hold, and stalks off down the corridors of the younger Doctor's TARDIS. He knows perfectly well that his younger self is going to follow. It's what he would do, after all.

He catches himself up after about thirty seconds. "You're never going to have that?" the younger Master asks, tentatively.

"No," says the elder, bluntly. "I can't trust my Doctor. Not ever again. He thinks he needs me, today, but he'll change his mind next week, because he's guilty, or afraid, or just sees something shiny out of the corner of his eye. We understand each other, because we've always understood each other, sort of. I don't think it'll ever be as bad again as it once was. But we'll never live the life you want, and can maybe someday have."

The Doctors are already in the Cloister Room when the Masters come in the door. The Master has never liked these places—all those unnecessary plants, not even useful scientific specimens, and the general air of the sacred and forgotten. It makes his skin crawl, even discounting his extraordinarily unpleasant run-in with a later, more gothic version of this same room. The two Doctors are sitting opposite each other, on a pair of stone benches with high, comfortable backs. The older Master makes a beeline for his Doctor, while the younger hesitates, uncertain whether sitting so close to his own Doctor is a wise idea.

"Oh, do just sit," mumbles the younger Doctor, staring at his shoes, and the Master hurries over and sits beside him, a decorous foot of space between them.

The older Master and Doctor exchange looks, attempting to decide whose job it is to start the explanations. It seems to have occurred to them both simultaneously that they haven't actually planned for this conversation. "Sooooo..." begins the Doctor. "You'll be wondering what we're doing here."

"The first thing you need to know," says the Master, "is that neither of us remembers this meeting. It's never happened before. We're not a part of your timestream at all. It took a paradox machine to get us here, and now that it has, we're completely different people from you. Your futures won't be the same as our pasts."

"At least," continues the Doctor, "not if we can help it. Well, no, definitely not, because by coming here at all, we've changed something very drastic for you. You're now living in a universe that hasn't got a Gallifrey in it, and hasn't got a Skaro. They've both been not only destroyed, but completely erased from history. The four of us—or two of us, if that's how you want to look at it—are the sum total of the entire Time Lord race, and there aren't any Daleks at all. At least, theoretically not."

"You don't need to know how it happened," the Master goes on. "You really would rather not know. I suppose it's worth telling you that there was a war—the Last Great Time War. We had to fight it. It won't ever happen again, now, so you won't. That's one big way your lives will be better than ours."

"But that doesn't mean you won't have your own battles to wage," says the Doctor. "You may think the Time Lord race was never much inclined to do...well, anything at all...and you'd mostly be right. But they did _occasionally_ have a hand in the maintenance of time and space, and they should always have done more. You'll already have started to realize that," the Doctor nods towards his younger self.

"And you will, given time," the Master tells his own other self.

"I realize that being the only ones left isn't an easy idea to get used to..."

"But buck up, and get over it. We haven't got time to hold your hands about it, and neither has the universe."

"Everything that the Time Lords did, to stop time devolving into chaos—that's all to us, now. Which is a tremendous responsibility, I know..."

"But pretty damn excellent too, if you think about it." The Master ignores his Doctor's startled glance, focusing on his younger self. "This may not be quite the kind of power you always wanted, but it _is_ power. Kind of a lot of it, actually."

"And it may be more power than you ever wanted," the Doctor has clearly caught on, and addresses his other self, "but not really the same sort, I think you'll agree."

"The universe needs us, all four of us, kiddies," says the Master. "I'm the last man to go blathering about the common good, but protecting time itself is in all our interests. There are plenty of beings in this universe playing with the kind of power that belongs to _us_ , experimenting incompetently and dangerously with time, and we're the only ones to stop it."

"And the Daleks aren't the only beings out there looking to conquer the whole of timespace and turn it into something intolerable," the Doctor pipes in. "We've got no safety net anymore. We're _it_ , the first and last line of defense. That's more than even the two of us can handle alone. It's why we needed you."

The Master bumps his shoulder against the Doctor's, intentionally. _We should have thought of all of this before. It's a damn good line, isn't it?_ he asks telepathically.

 _It does make an awful lot of sense, once you think about it,_ the Doctor agrees.

"You do know we can hear you, right?" asks the younger Master, aloud.

"Really?" asks the older Doctor.

 _Oh yes_ , says his younger self, wryly.

"Oh. Well...erm...I hope it's only a matter of proximity. It might be awfully...inconvenient, if we can hear every time the other makes mental contact."

"Inconvenient for us, perhaps, but not for you," says the younger Doctor, "as there isn't going to be anything for you to overhear."

Both of the older Time Lords glower at the second Doctor, but the fifth Master, swallowing hard, hurries in. "If that isn't _really_ why you came..."

"We didn't say that," points out the older Doctor.

"It's what you _meant_ ," scoffs the younger one. "Why _are_ you here?"

"Well," says the older Doctor. "I mean. That's _part_ of it. What we said before. Universe doomed without us, and all. I mean..."

"This is an intervention," interrupts his Master, with a sigh. "We're here to see if we can't stop you making the complete hashes of our lives that we have. And for starters, I'd like to be the first to say that you're both being bloody _idiots_ , and really need to just kiss and make up already."

"Well, you _would_ say that, wouldn't you?" says the second Doctor, a little primly. "After all, you..."

"You're being a bloody idiot," says the older Doctor, stopping his younger self in his tracks. "I _know_ how you feel about him, Doctor. I know all of it. Yes, you're angry with him. Yes, it hurts. Yes, you're even a little scared of him, sometimes. But I'm well aware that there was never a time in your life when you even considered the possibility of finding someone new."

The second Doctor is silent for a moment, and then he sticks out his lower lip, and crosses his arms. "Oh, now, it's just not _fair_ , a man's own self ganging up on him."

"Tough," says the older Doctor. "I know where my loyalties lie."

For the tiniest fraction of a second, the Doctor looks at his Master out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly something dramatic and hot is happening inside the Master's chest, welling up within him. The Master can't _remember_ the last time he felt like that. He tries to squash it, on principle, and it goes right on happening, this physical hopelovefearhappiness, at the very thought of the Doctor choosing the Master's side over his own self. It's terrifying, and at the same time, _glorious_.

The Master still doesn't trust the man, but nevertheless: the Doctor is _so_ getting laid tonight. 'Night' being an approximate term, here taken to mean 'just as soon as this conversation is over.'

"Look," the Doctor goes on, "we haven't got a right to tell you how to live your lives..."

"Oh yes we have," his Master interrupts. "You," he looks at his own younger self, "don't let him get away. Period. He's a runner, always—you don't know the _half_ of it. Keep him tied up, if you have to, but don't let him out of your sight until he's sworn on his TARDIS that he's coming back, you hear me? And yes, I realize you want to disobey any order on principle, but I promise you, that one is worth following."

"Right," agrees the younger Master, with a very creditable smirk. The older Master is almost _proud_.

"Now look here," the second Doctor blusters, "surely _you_ won't..." he asks his other self.

"I'll admit to not remembering when precisely I acquired that particular proclivity—it might not have been until the self after you, during that bit with the Keller machine—but you're not going to convince me that being tied up by the Master is some kind of hardship." The Doctor looks the younger Master over. "And if he _really_ won't see reason, just give me a call, and..."

"Enough!" growls the older Master, and clamps a hand over his Doctor's mouth.

 _Yes, Master,_ thinks the Doctor, in a silky mental voice that makes both Masters shift in their seats.

"Good," says the Master, a little hoarsely, dropping his hand, suddenly determined to end this conversation as soon as Gallifreyanly possible.

"Now, you see, there's something I just don't understand," the younger Doctor says, in a slightly huffy tone that seems to imply a certain jealousy of all the attention being paid his older self—or perhaps of the other Doctor's flirtation with his Master. "If things are going so well for the two of you, why is it you felt the need to go to all this trouble to interfere with _us_ , hmm? You seem to have everything you could want from each other. Why bother us, when it won't affect your lives one way or the other?"

The older pair look at each other, and suddenly their eyes are hooded, not quite seeing each other the way they were before.

"If he's to be believed," says the younger Master, gesturing to his older self as he turns to his Doctor, "that impression of amity is little more than a front."

"That isn't quite..." the older Doctor begins.

"I let him die," the Master interrupts, startling all of them. "Did you realize you could do that? That that's something you're capable of?" he asks his younger self. "And I was the reason he was there in the first place, so you could say I killed him, if you wanted. Another time, I killed a piece of him. Not the real Doctor, but a mostly living piece. I shot him in his hearts, and he bled to death all over me, and never stopped looking me in the eye." The Master looks around at the six eyes staring wide at him, and goes on. "Not that the Doctor's some kind of innocent. He let me burn to death once, you know. In fact, he's the one who tampered the machine that was only supposed to heal me, so you could say he killed me, if you wanted. Another time, he let me be executed by Daleks. We've both held each other as prisoners—real, honest prisoners of war. I've tortured him, and his friends. And he's run from me. I don't know how many fucking times he's let me think we were working things out, and then turned tail and run. May I drop dead on the day I ever think I've seen the last time. And you think we're—what? Happy? Sweet together? Going to be voted cutest couple sometime soon? You don't want to be us when you grow up. If there's ever going to be a Doctor and Master who actually get things right, it isn't going to be us. It's going to be you."

"And that's why we came," says the older Doctor, quietly. "Because each of us wanted to see the other happy, and there wasn't any other way to make it happen than this. If you want that too, then _please_ listen. You won't get another chance."

Their younger selves are very pale. And then the second Doctor turns, slowly, and, very carefully, takes the fifth Master's hand. The older Master would think they were speaking telepathically, but apparently if they were, he would hear it. And so it seems they're only staring, just looking, trying to sort everything out without words.

The Master tries to remember what it was like to be that young. He tries to recall what it was to believe that a glance could solve anything at all. But they're both of them young, he thinks, and maybe, just maybe, they're going to be all right. They're congenital idiots, the pair of them—but maybe they'll be all right, just the same.

For a long while, they only look, and the older Doctor's arm snakes around his Master's waist, and the Master lets it. And then, just as the older Master is beginning to get impatient, his younger self turns to face him, still holding the Doctor's hand.

"And what are you going to do, then?" asks the younger Master. "I know the both of you very, very well. Suicide in our favor isn't either of your style."

The older Doctor and the Master look at each other. "We'll try to stay out of your way," says the Doctor, "and take very good care of the paradox that made you."

"We'll do the things you can't," says the Master, clenching his jaw. "The two of you have no _idea_ how clean your hands are. Even with us around, they can't stay that way, not entirely. But there's dirty work you won't be prepared to do, either of you, and we will."

"We've got so much to carry already, so what's a little bit more?" adds the Doctor. "Sometimes the universe needs someone to pull the trigger, and sometimes it needs someone to stand in the way of the gun. I used to think that's what we were to each other," he looks at his own Master, who glares in protest at the Doctor's arrogance, "yin and yang, light and shadow. But nobody can be that, not all the way through. Nobody can do that alone. Nobody is purely one thing or another. Nobody has that luxury."

"You're blathering, Doctor," says the younger Master, severely.

"Perhaps you might be a bit more concrete, old fellow," puts in the younger Doctor.

The tenth Doctor's eyes unfocus. "Two bodies after you," he says, quietly, "I was given a choice, a terrible choice: commit genocide of a species still in its cradle, or allow something purely evil to live and grow and thrive. I chose the latter. As a result of that decision hundreds of other races were decimated or destroyed, thousands of planets atomized, trillions of lives lost, and in the end I not only had to eliminate that same species, but our own people as well." The Doctor looks hard at his second self. "I chose to let the Daleks live because it was the right thing to do. I don't regret it, I really don't. But the universe needed someone else to step in and do the opposite, because killing the Daleks was the right thing to do, too. Sometimes, the only right path is both paths."

"A paradox, isn't it?" the Master adds. "That's what we are, Master, Doctor. We're your paradox."

"All we're asking you," the Doctor continues, "is to live your lives, and do what you think is right. We'll take care of the rest."

"There's nobody else who can," the Master finishes.

There is silence for a long time. "Forgive me mentioning it, gentlemen," says the younger Master, finally, "but I don't think we're the only ones who have something to learn from this encounter."

"Well said," says the second Doctor, smiling at him in a way that clearly makes the fifth Master fight furiously not to blush with pleasure. "Oh, yes, very well said, my dear."

"Oh yeah?" asks the older Master, arching an eyebrow. "Well, out with it, then."

" _Look_ at you," says his younger counterpart. "You say you're broken beyond repair, can hardly even stand the thought of each other. You say you've done horrible things to each other, and no doubt will again. You say there's been too much water under the bridge, and you'll never even start to trust each other again. But _listen_ to yourselves. You're as crazy about each other as we ever were."

The Master and the Doctor look at each other. "Yeah," says the Doctor slowly, smiling. "Right now, we are."

"Right now, we are," repeats the Master. Because he's learned that opportunities are not to be wasted, he pulls his Doctor to him by the neck and traces his tongue over the Doctor's lips in a lazy sigil, a spell for entrance. The Doctor's mouth opens, and the Master kisses him, slow and deep and languid and sensual. When he pulls away, his fingers linger along the Doctor's hairline, but his eyes are serious. "But not always. Probably not tomorrow. Maybe not in five minutes."

The Doctor's eyes darken, and he nods. "That's the thing you have to understand most of all," he says, turning back to their younger incarnations, who have inched a good deal nearer to each other as they watched their older selves' embrace. "If you've got any sense at all, and I know you have, stop talking about forever. Stop it right now, I mean it. Forever's a very, very dangerous idea."

"You'll always be more important to each other than anybody else," says the Master. "That much can't ever change. But there'll be days when you absolutely make each other sick. There'll be days when you can barely stand to look at each other. There'll be days when you want to kill each other. I mean, _honestly_ want to kill each other."

"You can have the most epic love affair in the history of the universe—and will, if we have anything to say about it—but don't expect to wake up every day liking each other," says the Doctor. "You're going to disagree, and squabble, and sometimes actually fight. But don't be idiots, is what I'm saying. We got to believing that forever was supposed to mean every single moment being perfect. We did stupid things to try to make it that way, and ended up letting things go just as wrong as they could possibly be. So don't be like us. Really, don't. We're pretty bloody impressive, I'll give you that, but don't be like us anyhow. If you have to make promises, promise each other 'right now.' Enough right nows, and you've got forever, anyway."

The Master rolls his eyes at the Doctor's fortune cookie wisdom, no matter how much he agrees with the sentiment. "Thus ends your sermon for the day," he announces. "Have a nice life. You'd better, or we'll be very unhappy about it. And believe me, you don't want to be on the wrong side of either of us."

"So it's 'have a nice life or else,' really," singsongs the Doctor cheerfully. "Give a ring if you need us, keep your eyes open for Daleks—they're never as dead as they seem—and never steal a sapphire from a giant sentient spider. Well, not if you can help it. Well, not unless it's very, _very_ prett—" The Doctor is cut off mid-word as the Master pulls him inside his own TARDIS, and slams the door behind him. There's the sound of as brief shuffle within, the door reopens, and the Doctor's head pokes itself back out. "Oh, and Master: don't let him fool you, he's not _that_ attached to that ridiculous haircut. He'll change it if you ask nicely enough." The Doctor disappears suddenly, clearly yanked back inside. "You're on your own getting rid of the flute!" he yells, as the door once again swings shut.

"That's 'recorder' to you, scrawny-britches, and I'd not talk about _my_ hair if I weren't you!" the other Doctor calls back, over the noisy wheeze of dematerialization. The sound is just fading when suddenly it increases again, and the police box reappears. This time _both_ Time Lords appear in the doorway.

"And when you get to your sixth body, Doctor..." says the Master.

"...let the Master choose your wardrobe. Just...please, _please_ trust me on that one."

They disappear again. The younger Doctor and Master sit without speaking until it's silent in the cloister room, and then a few minutes longer, just to be certain.

"So," says the fifth Master, finally.

"So indeed," agrees the second Doctor. " _Quite_ so, you might even say."

"Doctor..." says the Master, in a warning sort of tone. He has no idea how he plans to make a proper sentence of the name, but fortunately the question is taken out of his hands when the Doctor kisses him.

This new body of the Doctor's clearly has no idea whatever about how kisses are meant to go. The Master wonders how the Doctor could _possibly_ have slipped so far in only a century and a half. It's like the Master's lips are a worm being swallowed by a fish—messy and wet and wildly unappealing.

He loves every single second of it.

"I missed you, you know," says the Doctor, and the Master likes that even better.

"I know," grins the Master.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Well, _really_ , if _that's_ how you feel..."

"Doctor," says the Master, with almost hypnotic intensity, "do something for me, won't you? For the next ten seconds, stay absolutely still." The Master slips a kid-gloved hand up to the Doctor's cheek and moves his lips onto the Doctor's, brushing their mouths softly together, sliding his tongue lightly along the parting of the Doctor's lips. Their noses nuzzle gently against each other, and the Doctor's breath hitches.

"Ohhhh," breathes the Doctor when they part. "Oh, that's _much_ better, isn't it? I'd forgotten. Well, not actually forgotten. Not really. More _tried_ to...mmmm!"

The hum that the Master swallows tingles pleasantly against his lips. Then the Doctor executes a tricky little wriggle with his tongue that takes the Master completely by surprise.

"Yes, _that's_ where those memories were. I hadn't thought I'd need them, you see. Awfully clever of me to keep them just in case, though, wouldn't you say?"

"I think this new self of yours is going to take some getting used to," says the Master wryly.

The Doctor swallows, and suddenly his eyes are much more serious, his whole face settling down. "I'm sorry. I forget, sometimes, what an affectation this personality is. Does it still count as an affectation, I wonder, once it's become instinctive?" He reaches out, and takes the Master's hand. "I needed to be...frivolous, this time. Lighter than I was. It was the only way not to live in the past, dwelling on what I'd lost. What _we'd_ lost." He muses quietly for a moment, then smiles. "You'll still never convince me to give up the recorder."

"I'll settle for the hair," says the Master, smiling back.

"Believe it or not, this body's not bad when it's cleaned up a bit."

"Oh, I _do_ believe it," the Master purrs, sliding a hand up the Doctor's thigh. The Doctor's face goes beet-red, and the Master leans close to murmur into his ear, "Your last self never blushed, Doctor. I used to wish you would, sometimes, you know."

"Anything to oblige, dear fellow," the Doctor squeaks.

"'Master,'" the Master corrects.

"Master," the Doctor breathes, and suddenly they're all urgent lips and tangling limbs and uncaught breaths and unfulfilled desires, dragging each other towards the nearest bedroom.

"I missed you too, Doctor," the Master admits, sometime during the shedding of their clothes. "So much."

"It wasn't your fault," says the Doctor, seriously, hands on the Master's waistcoat buttons. "Rose. It wasn't your fault, it truly wasn't. I'm sorry for what I said, Master. I was hurting so much, then, but it was wrong of me, all the same."

The Master stops, breathes deeply. "Thank you," he acknowledges. His eyes grow faraway, and the Doctor offers, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I'd rather have a kiss," says the Master, leering at his Doctor.

"All right," agrees the Doctor. "A kiss for your thoughts." He slides one bare foot up the back of the Master's leg, wrapping himself tight around the Master's body. "More than a kiss, if you'd prefer."

" _Doctor_ ," says the Master, appreciatively. "There _is_ more potential to this self than I'd guessed. Though I can't say I'm impressed by your bartering technique."

"Is that what you were thinking, then?"

The Master raises an eyebrow, indicating that he expects his payment in advance. The Doctor complies, tightening his fingers around the Master's waist as he leans into a kiss so breathtaking that the Master begins to wonder if the Doctor was just playing him on that first attempt.

"Well, then?"

"Curiosity really is your favorite vice, isn't it?"

"Cats only have nine lives. I have thirteen. I can spare one. And we had a deal, Master."

"I was thinking about our other selves." The Doctor's shirt is unbuttoned, and the Master runs a finger down his chest, from collarbone to navel, making the Doctor's breath hiss through his teeth. "What do you suppose they're up to now?"

"Oh, something very much in this vein, I should imagine," says the Doctor, pushing the Master's waistcoat off his shoulders. "All their talk of enmity didn't fool me for a second. I think they get along much better than they let on."

*

Somewhere in the Vortex, the older Doctor and Master are getting along much better than they let on.

"Master!" The tenth Doctor's bare back is pressed against the door of his TARDIS, his shout echoing around the console room. His bare neck is straining appealingly, deliciously exposed. His bare arms are wrapped around the Master, hanging on for dear life. His bare legs are _also_ wrapped around the Master, heels digging into the small of the Master's back. His bare cock is pressed against the Master's belly, exposed by the Master's unbuttoned shirt. The Master is still wearing his trousers. The Doctor is still wearing his tie. And the Doctor is tight and hot around the Master's cock, moaning and gasping with every thrust. The Master's not certain that life _gets_ any better than this.

"Master, _please_!" the Doctor moans, and the Master decides that, yes, it _does_ get better, after all. He's inside the Doctor's head, and has adapted that neat little trick the Doctor taught him to dampen his drums to turn the Doctor's senses up to eleven, multiplying every sensation exponentially. Every cell of the Doctor's body is _screaming_ its pleasure, and the Doctor should have come long since. Should have. If only the Master weren't clamping down hard on those neural pathways, preventing the Doctor from doing any such thing. All that pleasure is just building and building and building, and the Master wonders idly if the Doctor's head will actually pop if the Master leaves it too long, and then wonders idly whether it's worth it. "Master!" the Doctor half-screams, squirming into a particularly sharp thrust, and the Master decides that, no, not yet. Too much potential left. Maybe some other day.

"Again," growls the Master. "Again, Doctor."

"Master. Master! Please, Master, please, Master, _please_ , Master, _please_..."

"Surely you can find _something_ more to say, Doctor." The Master cannot resist that beautiful span of neck any longer. He sinks his teeth in, not at all gently, and the Doctor _shrieks_. "Two words does not a conversation make. True, they are two very nice words. I'm not sure I can think of any others I like better to hear from you. Well, 'you were right' makes a nice change every now and then, I suppose."

"What...do you...want?"

"Ooo, those are excellent as well!" The Master thrusts hard again, and the Doctor is reduced to incoherent little whimpers in the back of his throat. The Master hopes very much this ancient TARDIS has some kind of recording equipment. That is a noise that deserves to be preserved for posterity. "Well, Doctor, let's think." He tightens his grip on the Doctor's arse, wishing he could spare a hand to tug on the Doctor's tie. He wants so much to see what would happen if he cut off the Doctor's airflow just now. "I've already got you naked, buggered and begging. I'm pretty certain the only thing I want now is to drag it out. I really don't think there's anything you can offer me that'll make me release you just yet, d'you?"

The Doctor's scrabbling hands slide up the Master's back and into his hair, gripping the sides of his face and forcing him to look straight into the Doctor's eyes.

"Yours, Master," says the Doctor, hoarsely, with the painfully earnest expression this body does _so_ well. "I've always been yours."

The Master shudders, all the way up from his toes. "Oh, that's just _cheating_ ," he whispers, and comes, dragging the Doctor along with him.

There's a very disorienting moment. It's some seconds before the Master realizes that his knees have given out. It's seconds after that before he realizes that the Doctor's stomach is over his face. It's seconds after _that_ before he realizes that, no, his face is over the Doctor's stomach. It's all very confusing, and the Master doesn't feel the need to justify his own conclusions so long as they stay safely inside his own head, thank you very much.

"They didn't stay safely inside your own head," points out the Doctor. " _I_ told you you're the one on top."

"Well, that's predictable, isn't it?"

"Give me half an hour to recover, and then we'll see about that."

"Can't," mutters the Master.

"Can't? What d'ye mean, 'can't'?"

"Can't. Can-not. No can do. Very busy schedule. Universe to conquer. No time for frivolity, no matter how appealingly nude."

"What? Wait, what? Master, I thought you were out of the universe-conquering business."

"And what, precisely," says the Master, making a valiant attempt to sit up, deciding after three inches that it isn't worth the effort, and flopping back onto the Doctor, "gave you that idea?"

The Doctor blinks. The Master can't actually _see_ him blink, but he'd bet a star system on it, if he had a star system to bet. "Well," says the Doctor, and stops. "Well, that is, I assumed..."

"Ah, you know what they say about assuming!" The Master springs up like a jack-in-the-box, with no warning whatsoever, to stand leaning against the wall. "What they say, Doctor, is, don't," he adds, in case the Doctor in fact _didn't_ already know.

The Doctor sits up. He's gorgeously disheveled, and _still_ wearing his tie. The Master could very, very much get used to this. "But we...well, we..." The Doctor runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking straight up. "We came all this way, and...and I thought..."

"That it implied my deep and abiding commitment to a life of goody-two-shoes-ism? I'm sorry, Doctor, but I'm afraid you've got the wrong man."

The Doctor's jaw tightens, and he looks away. "Maybe I have," he agrees.

The Master's eyes turn dangerous. Within an instant, the Doctor is pinned to the ground, the Master's hands on his biceps. "Did you believe _any_ of what you told our other selves earlier, Doctor?"

"What? Of course I did."

"That there'd be times we wouldn't like each other much," the Master presses, "and that it wouldn't change a thing?"

The beginnings of comprehension are kindling in the Doctor's eyes. "I got into this game we play because I wanted to build a paradox," the Master continues, "but we both know that last little stunt with the Toclafane had nothing to do with energy devices, and not all of the earlier plans, either. I _like_ my schemes for universal domination, Doctor, and here's the thing of it: you like them, too."

This Doctor does 'indignant' nearly as well as 'earnest.' "I do _not_..."

"You don't want them to succeed," interrupts the Master. "But sure as Rassilon made little green apples, you _do_ like foiling them."

The Doctor stops dead. "Well," he says, and then stops again. "Well," he tries, and then, "Weeeeellllll. I...possibly. That is to say...maybe. I don't _hate_ foiling them. I don't...it doesn't...it isn't boring. You've got to admit, it isn't boring."

"No," smirks the Master. "It isn't boring." He leans down, laps quickly at the Doctor's lips, and then pulls back again before following through on the kiss. "The way I figure it," the Master comments, "it's a big universe. There's got to be some diversity about the place, to keep life worth living. That's your kind of philosophy, isn't it, Doctor? All creatures great and small?"

"Yes?" asks the Doctor, clearly unsure where this is going.

"So, what I think is, the universe _needs_ a team of husband-husband jangly-in-the-brainpan gentlemanly-antagonist madman Time Lords tearing about the place, ripping things apart and putting 'em back together. It's our _duty_."

"Then what was the point of coming back here at all?" The Doctor sounds ready to tear his own hair out.

The Master sobers. "Because _we_ needed it," he says softly. "We need to be able to think, sometimes, that somewhere out there, the Doctor and the Master still love each other just as much as the day Rose was de-loomed. We _need_ that, Doctor, and we always have. But that doesn't mean that having it can change who we are."

"So that's it, then?" The Doctor sits up, and the Master lets him, rolling off to sit beside him. "After all this, we just...what? Let our other selves have all the happy endings? Go back to the way we were before the War? Trying to kill each other, except on the occasional anniversary or birthday?"

"What more do you want, Doctor? A regularly scheduled good-night kiss?"

"As a matter of fact...yes. Yes, I bloody well _do_ want a good-night kiss. We've been married for fourteen hundred years, Master. I think I'm entitled to that much."

The Master considers. "All right."

"I do think you could at least...wait, what?"

" _All right_. Whatever your failings, Doctor—and I could name them in considerable detail—that oral fixation you've got this time around is good for _something_. For several things, actually, but my point is, kissing you is not something I consider a trial. Ten o' clock every night good for you?"

"I... _what_?"

The Master rolls his eyes. " _God_ , you're slow. Look, I'll try to keep it to little words: we fight across the stars, as always. We don't trust each other any more than we have to. We loathe each other and love each other to varying degrees from one minute to the next. We don't promise each other a bloody thing, ever. And every night, my TARDIS—the one I'm going to steal from the shipyards on Shada as soon as possible—materializes in your TARDIS, and I shove my husband up against the nearest wall and stick my tongue down his throat before heading off to see to more important things. Is that enough to stop you whining?"

The Doctor's eyebrows hover somewhere decidedly above his hairline. One of them lowers, slowly, but the other stays just where it is as his expression becomes something devious. "A negotiation, is this?" He gives a crooked smile. "Well, then: no, it isn't enough. I want sex four times a week. I get to top at least twice a month. No bruises where the rest of the world can see."

It's the Master's turn to raise an eyebrow, and then to smirk lopsidedly. He knows perfectly well what this Doctor _actually_ wants. "How 'bout this, instead: I fuck you when I want, the way I want, as hard and as rough and as often as I want, and you take what you're given, beg me for more, and say 'Thank you, Master,' when I'm through. Non-negotiable."

The Doctor opens his mouth, shuts it again, and swallows hard. "Ah. I see. Well, then. But you sleep in my bed once a week."

Grinning at the Doctor's unspoken surrender, the Master leans forward, planting one arm on the opposite side of the Doctor's waist, invading his personal space. "Fine—but that's the last thing I'll give you. And I get the left side."

"You always did."

The Master traces a lazy finger along the Doctor's collarbone. "Any preferences on days?"

The color in the Doctor's cheeks is rising. It's not the only part of the Doctor that is. "I...it...Sundays, I think. Mondays might be slightly less intolerable, if I'm not waking up alone."

"I didn't promise to be there when you wake up." The Master feels the Doctor's hands creeping up to grip at the lapels of his unbuttoned shirt, and smiles.

"You will, though," says the Doctor, leaning close.

"We'll see, Doctor," says the Master, going in for the kiss. "We'll see."

 

 **THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart for this fic (non-spoilery after chapter 1) can be found [here](http://tardiscrash.livejournal.com/13061.html) and [here](http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/430971.html), care of the lovely tardiscrash and neveralarch, respectively.


End file.
